In the Garden of the Beast
by ZuzuPetalsInkBlot
Summary: Dystopian AU. In a society where social class is everything and sexuality is repressed. The world is run by the Cardinal Law, a neo-pseudo form of religion and law. The Watcher watch you. And we know who watches them. One man, one day, thinks for himself. And that could be the greatest crime of all. EXTREMELY EXPLICIT,TRIGGER WARNINGS WILL BE POSTED AT THE TOP OF EACH CHAPTER
1. PROLOGUE

In the Garden of the Beast

By Zuzu Petal

Prologue

The scream cut through the early morning air; it was cold, bitter, a chill any man or beast could feel. The cat howled, startling Sherlock as he walked. The leafs were wet, nimble and no longer crisp as they had been in the beginning of the fall.

The cat was in pain, broken and wounded when he found it. It was too weak to fight him but stubborn enough still to hiss at him. Lifting only a bloody paw weakly, a fighter to the last.

Sherlock Holmes hated cats, was allergic to them and likened them to some monster from a fairytale. Janine, however, loved felines. She thought them terribly graceful and beautiful. But where his wife saw only a majestic cat he saw a murderer. When he was five his mother's cat had eaten his hamster. It's little body strewn about his bedroom, it's intestines making criss crossing red ribbons across the blue carpet.

As a boy, he had cried and kicked the mean old cat. And who had been punished? Surely not his mother's PJ (which stood for Pride and Joy), but Sherlock. He was placed, quite dejectedly, in the corner. She had wrapped her slender fingers around the back of his little soft, boy-neck and pressed his face hard into the wall where it split to make a corner. She had pressed so hard in fact that his head knocked off a nail sticking out of the wall, giving him a bloody red mark, a scar to carry for life.

And mother had made him clean up " _his"_ mess.

"Stupid rodent," his mother had mumbled as he cleaned up the remains of his pet, Mr. Hobbs. And all the while, that fucking cat had stared at him through yellow eyes. As if it were smirking. PJ rubbed his side against Sherlock's mother's leg, purring loudly, a little bit of blood still covered his lower jaw and there was no mistaking the little tufts of brown fur that matted his tabby colored paws as belonging to the coat of Mr. Hobbs.

Sherlock never had a pet after that. The memory of losing something that had been so dear to him stayed with him forever.

Well... and _Redbeard..._

And now as he looked down upon the battered old grey cat, curled underneath a bush for protection in his garden, he scowled at it. And yet his heart could not completely harden.

"Damn." He said and he went and got his thick work gloves, the ones he used for clearing out brush and thorn bushes. He fastened them on tightly and slowly reached down towards the cat. It hissed, it scratched, but Sherlock remembered his father grabbing PJ once when he was a boy when the old cat was dying and needed medicine injected into it's mouth.

Firmly, Sherlock grasped the cat on the scruff. However it was difficult because the cat was so thin it felt extremely breakable under his hands.

 _Should break the miserable wretches neck,_ he thought. He was capable of it, but could not do it.

Sherlock took the cat to the shed and placed it on his work table. He had running water and found an empty dish and filled it with water and placed it next to the cat. Slowly and unsurely, as if it were poisoned or some trick, the cat stubbornly drank the water.

As it drank Sherlock set about examining the cat. His uncle had been a vet and had showed his parents how to give PJ his medicine and even taught Sherlock a thing or two.

" _You must be gentle with cats, patient, they are so independent, Sherlock. They won't ever ask for help, not like a dog does."_ His uncle Rudi had said.

Sherlock kept the gloves on. He knew the cat wasn't rabid, he had seen a rabid animal before. He believed this cat was simply malnourished. He lifted it's injured paw which the cat quickly yanked away.

"You arsehole." Sherlock said and he could begin to feel his eyes becoming itchy from cat's dander. It was a fluffy looking cat, lots of hair and lots of dander. It's fur was matted in places and as Sherlock examined it more closely a bit of it's right ear was missing. As much as he hated cats he didn't like seeing an animal in pain. It was wrong to take pleasure in something like that.

 _Redbeard..._

"I'm not going to name you," Sherlock said to the cat who only looked him dead in the eye as if were trying to say, "I don't give a shit".

Sherlock waited a few more minutes, refilling the water dish and returning it to the cat, before attempting to examine the paw again. This time the cat let him look at it for a little longer before pulling it away. He ran his gloved hands over it's emaciated body, feeling bones pressing hard against his gloved covered hands. When he took his hands away there was a little blood but it was light and the wound couldn't be terribly deep.

"Got into a scrape, haven't you boy?" Sherlock found himself saying. He removed a glove to rub his eye, feeling it begin to water. Then he realized he didn't know if the cat was male or female. He slowly turned the cat and examined its backside.

Not male after all. It was a she, and she had seen a lot he supposed.

"Alright, you're going to the vet." Sherlock decided and he left the cat inside the shed, making sure to leave it near the sun for warmth, although he would only realize later he had done that subconsciously. He returned to the shed with one of Janine's overnight bags. He would leave the top open a little but didn't want to risk the cat turning on him and scratching him.

The cat allowed him to place it inside the bag, an old throw blanket lining it. This wasn't exactly how Sherlock was expecting to spend his free Saturday morning off. Transporting some stray cat to and fro. He would have rather been working, but then again, his mind rarely stopped.

As he waited for the vet to tell him how the cat was doing he couldn't stop himself from thinking of names. He didn't plan on keeping it and decided not to tell Janine about it either. That's all he needed. They had been trying for a baby- well, _she_ had been trying. And she would use this as an excuse to take care of something.

Sherlock didn't see the need for babies. He didn't want them. But it was his duty and more importantly hers. She didn't think she was a real woman if she couldn't have children. And lately, her depression had begun to spiral. She spent more time away from home at book clubs, support groups and of course getting second opinion after second opinion on why she wasn't conceiving. She was healthy, never smoked a day in her life, never had an infection or procedure that might make it difficult to have children.

Doctors told her she was the perfect specimen to conceive.

So, why wasn't she?

Sherlock had no answers, he wasn't a doctor. He was, not so secretly, heavily relieved. He didn't want children, not because he thought he wouldn't be a good father, but because he didn't want to continue his own father's line. His brother would see to that, in some way he was sure. Sherlock didn't want anymore Holmes' running around. He had his reasons...

"The feline has been approved," the vet had said when he came out, the cat in a carrying case and the overnight bag folded on top of it.

"A battered little thing. Where did you find it, Mr. Holmes?"

"In my garden." Sherlock replied and took the carrier.

"I gave it a painkiller for its paw and it's received all the important vaccines. It will be good for the shelter to know when you take her." The vet said, scribbling something down with a stylist on a pad.

"Mmm?" Sherlock grunted lightly. The vet looked from the carrier to the man, then his eyes fell briefly on Sherlock's left shoulder.

"It said on the paperwork it's a stray." The vet said. Sherlock nodded. "Well, you're not keeping it are you, sir? Technically I should write a note for euthanasia."

"Why's that?" Sherlock asked, but he already knew the answer as soon as the words stumbled out of his mouth.

 _How did I miss that?_ His mind raced.

"Cats are prohibited in your sector. I thought a man of the law would know that." The vet suddenly looked quite tense. Sherlock only shrugged, giving off that air of entitlement and knowledge, though it was faked this time it was forced.

"It's been a long morning. Have a great day." He said and turned and exited the animal hospital.

For some strange reason Sherlock could not place, he almost felt disappointed he would be leaving the cat at some shelter. He didn't want the mangy thing and he couldn't keep it anyway. He didn't know what had made him slip up. The vet was right; he was a man of the law. He knew the rules and regulations. Certain sectors didn't allow cats, dogs or any type of pet. Some did.

In this case Sherlock's did not. There were plenty of pet birds though. He sneezed heavily as he got inside his car.

"Damned cat." He mumbled as he started the engine.

The woman at the desk at the animal shelter greeted him happily and with a perky smile. Her name tag read "Sally" in cursive lettering. He placed the carrier on the counter.

"I have a feline found outside of the proper sector, stray." He said simply. She noticed his off duty regulation jacket, the emblem on his left shoulder and nodded quickly, he could almost hear her heart skip a beat.

 _Perhaps she thinks I'm here to spook her or give a surprise inspection,_ he thought bitterly.

Sherlock looked her up and down once more-

 _Married, happy, he's a school teacher- no, Condition Specialist. She loves honey, all over her left cuff-_

The paperwork was simple and thirty minutes later he left, cat free. The mangy bugger was on her own now. Maybe a happy couple looking to be merciful to some poor animal soul would adopt her. Maybe a couple from sector's five or six. They allowed cats.

Maybe they'd put her down... he almost turned back at the thought, but only almost.

Sherlock popped an allergy pill he kept in his glove compartment for just such an occasion. Sometimes he and Janine would attend parties in sectors where they did allow cats. And as much as he hated cats he couldn't help but daydream that the one he found that morning would find a good home.

Sherlock turned onto Baker street, a house was on fire but he drove by. It was his day off. No point in helping when the boys in red were there. He had seen enough burning houses to know he was no good off duty.

 _Are we ever off duty? Really?_ He thought.

But he pushed those thoughts aside. They were unhealthy after all. And who knew for sure what the Cardinals were scheming. Perhaps they already knew he had been thinking those thoughts for a long time. But he had always been smart enough never to tell a soul.

 _Those are the thoughts that get one shot._


	2. CHAPTER ONE

**AN: This chapter contains extreme sexual themes.**

CHAPTER ONE

Her name was Molly Hooper and she seemed to be everywhere at once and then nowhere at all. Sherlock's mind liked played tricks on him, daydreaming of her. The maid who worked for his wife. The maid he had known most of his life. The dreamy little blinks of her eyes captivated him. It pulled him chillingly closer to the edge of sanity when it came to _that_ maid.

The maid who never meant anything and everything. The one woman...

Her name was Molly Hooper and she was the colors of spring and summer, warping his mind into an array of endless fantasies and musings he never dared tell anyone. That seemed to be his lot in life; keep it all inside, never tell another human being. Never _ever_ divulge what lurked beneath the surface.

If he did he knew what horror awaited him. He arrested men like himself every day. The men who were not faithful to their vows under the Cardinal and the Law. However loveless and unhappy one's life and marriage might be, it was against the law to sin against one's spouse.

That didn't mean the law didn't turn a blind eye every now and then. Especially to those who could pay to keep the Watchers and the Cardinals at bay.

And yet... that maid with her short strawberry blonde hair and twinkling green eyes made the beast he kept in a cage howl and claw at the bars. He would never tell her, however much he wished he could, how he wanted to pin her down and debauch her.

Molly was ever so innocent, perhaps that was what made him yearn harder for her. Those subtle gestures she made when she thought she was all alone in his great house. But oh, how he watched her...

When she was thinking or lost in thought her movements became lighter. When she was focused she bit her bottom lip ever so slightly. Sometimes she would stop and stretch, her little lithe body pressing against the fabric of her blue gown.

How he wanted to rip it from her body and at the same time hike up her skirt and ravish her pleading form. Yes, she would beg him to stop. And yet he believed he would find her wanting. Dripping, soft, pliable, bending to his whim whether she wanted it or not.

The amount of times Sherlock had daydreamed of her had begun to overwhelm him. He was not feeling himself lately and he could not quite place what had changed within in.

Sherlock wanted Molly willing, unwilling, pleading, begging... he wanted all of her.

And every day he knew he was coming closer and closer to the brink.

Sherlock knew he had already taken far too many liberties with her as it was. Gently brushing her hair behind her ear, letting his finger ghost along her cheek. How she had held her breath, it took every ounce of self control he had not to take her then.

And how he would _take_ her-

The alarm beside the bed screamed at him as he awoke from another dream he would forget in minutes and all that would remain would be strange feelings throughout the day; a remembrance of something that had never taken place except within his own mind.

Sherlock Holmes dressed for the day in his bathroom as his wife slept. Another night of their lovemaking had left him feeling empty. He didn't think of Molly when he took his wife, Janine. For it would never be the same and she would never allow him to move as he wished or fuck her instead of making love to her.

Janine did everything she could to please him in bed, but it never worked. He knew she only wanted to be a good wife to him. She had been assigned to him from the Maiden's Citadel. She came from a good family, an honest one. She came with money not that he needed it. And more importantly, at least to everyone else involved, she was fertile.

And yet, after five years of a silent marriage, there were no children running about the house knocking into family heirlooms. No children that would go on to make this world a better place. No sons or daughters of the Sherlock line that would carry over and take his place as a Watcher.

Sherlock tampered with nothing. He was not to blame. He had seen a doctor at Janine's request. He was fine, fit and healthy. No one could understand why there were no children. And because of this five year long trial and error process, Janine sunk deeper into the possibility that she would never give her husband children.

" _It's all I've ever wanted,"_ she would say again and again, tears falling from her brown eyes, her cheeks red and she looking almost like a child herself. And Sherlock wanted to say that it wasn't, that it was all _everyone else_ wanted. She had only been raised to think it was all she had to offer.

 _Babies,_ he would think, _I hope we never have one._

And only to himself he would be joyous when yet another test proved negative.

Janine still slept as he left the bedroom for his early breakfast. He knew he would find Molly setting up the breakfast room. His heart fluttered and his stomach swam.

And of course, there she was. Her blue dress, her medium high collar that he wanted to pull down with his teeth. She heard him enter and turned and bowed a little, her cheeks flushing of their own accord.

"Sir," she said and placed a tablet on the table where he always sat.

"Hooper." He said sitting.

Strange, that after knowing each other so long, they still spoke like it was her first day of work.

She stood in the corner staring straight ahead as he ate. He wasn't very hungry this morning. He still had two hours to kill before he had to leave for his sector's station. Janine would be in bed for another four. He had time... time to-

"I'm not very hungry." He announced simply. Molly approached the table and reached out to take the plate of steaming eggs and toast. He watched as the flesh on the inside of her wrist was exposed and nearly bit his lip. He had known this girl for years. He was years older than her but knew her father. He had trained Sherlock.

And Sherlock had killed him.

Molly would have fallen into poverty had Sherlock not intervened. And the girl knew nothing of any of it. Her father, Anton, had committed a crime and was discovered by Sherlock. Of course the old man should have known never to trust his partner.

A Watcher's first mistake is depending on his partner. And the first rule of being a Watcher is "Watch your Watcher".

"Can I show you something?" He said softly to Molly. She paused, stilling her movements like a statue. Her lips parted a little and he watched as her pupils dilated.

"I... I shouldn't." She whispered. He leaned forward ever so slightly, reaching his hand slowly towards her little wrist, that pure skin. She smelled so clean. His thumb lightly danced across the inside of her wrist, a little gasp escaping her lips. Her flesh breaking out in goosebumps.

"Please." He said as quietly as she.

Molly barely nodded and against her better judgement, after she had cleared the table, followed her employer into his study. He carried his tablet with him, it alerted him of the day's duties.

 _Incoming Transmission_ it spoke to him. He thumbed the tablet and filed it away, telling it to alert him at a later time in the morning. There was plenty of time after all. He had rearranged his entire morning routine the moment Molly came to work for him and his wife. He knew when he returned at night she would be finishing her rounds on the upper floors and his chances of being alone with her diminished.

They entered his office, he slid the sliding wooden door closed behind them. He could sense her apprehension. The last time they stood in this room together many things had nearly happened. Afterwards he couldn't count on happening upon her in the house anymore and so he took to creating reasons to be alone with her. He sensed she was on to him and yet she was here.

He remained at the door, she taking in her surroundings, though she had been in this room hundreds of times before.

"What is it today, Sir?" She asked him politely, almost quietly. As if the walls had ears... in many homes, they did.

Not his, he made sure of that.

Sherlock slowly began his approach, he took quick notice of the way her feet almost moved. But she stayed still. Frozen, he was sure she was terrified of being alone with him. But that sweet blush she couldn't control, the way her breathing intensified with each step he took. What wonders she did to him... he wondered what he did to her.

"Take your hair down." He ordered. Though her hair was short it was still long enough for a small braid. She shyly reached up and took out her braid. "Turn around." She did.

He came closer, reaching a nervous hand and running his fingers through her hair. He felt her gasp and he closed his eyes briefly.

 _Control..._ he thought lustfully.

"Sir..." she said to him but he didn't listen. Not to her, not to his own mind, he only listened to the darkest and most primal parts of himself, the parts he had been told to deny his whole life; the beast that told him to ravage the girl.

"S... Sir!" She said more sternly. He then realized his hands were no longer in her hair but were on _her_. He had pulled her back against his body. Her little form squirming helplessly against him.

"I want to take you, Molly." He whispered into her ear. She whimpered but he felt her shiver at his words. It felt blissfully good to say them.

"Please, Sir." She begged and it only stoked his fire. He let his hands travel up from her waist to her front, grasping her small breasts in his hands breathing heavily against the nape of her neck. She cried out and he moved a hand over her mouth.

"Don't pretend, be silent." He ordered her and she nodded. After a moment, still not removing his hand from her lips, he used his free hand to unbutton that collar that hid her sweet pale neck from him.

He groaned as he pressed his mouth to her pulse and he felt her stiffen against him. So sweet, innocent... _his_.

He finally removed his hand wanting to hear her whimpers and moans instead of silencing them. And oh, how she moaned. He was aware she had never been touched before. He was more aware that she had little idea of what was happening to her body. He forced her to walk a couple steps forward until her knees hit his desk and he bent his body more heavily over hers.

"Sir... it's not right- it's against the law." She pleaded to him but he shook his head and mouthed her neck once more. This time he bit just the smallest into her flesh and she cried out, her knees locking together.

"Remember on the steps a month ago?" He whispered into her ear and she shamefully nodded.

He had cornered her in the afternoon on a weekend when he was home, asking her about the new patches he had commissioned her to sew onto his jackets. He found her taking the stairs instead of the elevator. He had stroked her bottom lip with his thumb before pressing it into her mouth. She had been pressed against the wall, a look of fear and want in her eyes as her tongue ran along his thumb. He had slunk away from her after that, fucking his own hand in a closet.

"Do it again." He begged, pressing his thumb to her lips. She shyly parted her lips and he pressed his thumb inside the warmth of her mouth. He moaned into her ear, his hot breath tickling her nerves and driving her mad with feelings she didn't understand. Feelings only _he_ had ever stirred. And yet she still feared him. Her fear was smart for he was a Watcher and they terrified all who looked upon them.

Sherlock removed his thumb from her mouth and reached a hand down to the hem of her dress. She tried stopping him but he was stronger.

"Sir, you could be arrested- I could lose my job." She whimpered as his hand trailed hot flames across her thigh. "I hurt- I hurt all over." But she hadn't asked him to stop.

 _Perhaps I should... perhaps..._

Sherlock spun her around, pressing Molly's backside into the desk. Her hands flattening against his sturdy, powerful chest. She gasped when she saw the look on his face. He never looked more threatening before. So fiercely unhinged. So... insanely handsome. He cupped her face in his hands and she prepared for an attack. He only pressed his lips to hers gently.

 _A kiss?_ She thought, confused and unsure. _Is this what a kiss is?_

Sherlock pulled away only a few inches before kissing her gently a second time, then a third...

Molly's lips slowly responded by fifth kiss and he pulled back only a little.

"Open your mouth." He ordered. She was slightly disappointed. She didn't mind his lips but now he wanted her to lick and suck at his finger again?

Molly parted her lips a little, only to be surprised when his mouth came down upon hers once more. She moaned hotly against his wet tongue as it explored her virgin mouth. Sherlock groaned deeply; everything about her was virginal. His cock was so hard as he pressed it against her hip.

The girl tentatively touched her tongue to his, still attempting to push him away and keep him close. Not struggling as hard as before. When he tore his mouth away she was once more disappointed. But then he began kissing her neck and all her nerves began dancing once more.

"Do you think about me?" He asked, his voice deep and husky and almost desperate. "Do you lie awake thinking about the day on the steps?"

Molly nodded a little.

"How did it make you feel?" He asked, pulling away from her neck, now a little red from his kisses.

"I... I don't know." Molly replied. Sherlock reached between her legs once more, or tried to, for when he did she pressed her knees together. But Sherlock was persistent.

"Open for me, Molly." He whispered hotly, knowing she could not refuse an order from her employer... her _master_. But the girl shook her head and he pressed harder against her, intimidating her with his body and voice. "I said, _open for me Molly_ ," He said again. She turned her face away from him and put a hand over her mouth.

 _Doesn't he realize I'm trying to protect him?_ Molly thought. She pictured him tied to a post, his hands bound behind his back, his eyes covered with a black cloth...

"They'll shoot you." She said gloomily through her hand, still not looking at him as she tried to hide or subdue her sobs.

"Molly," he said tilting her chin towards him. Her eyes still filled with tears.

"Open. Your. Legs." He said more forcefully. He wasn't ignoring what she said, this was his answer to it. He knew that she realized right now that he didn't care what the law said. He wanted to have her. He fucking _needed_ to have her. And she only resisted because of her own conditioning.

 _The great lies they tell us, how easily we believe them,_ he thought sadly.

Sherlock felt the shift in her leg muscles as she slowly began opening them. He almost let out a sigh of relief. Stepping between them he wasted no time in cupping her innocent mound. She gasped clapped a hand harder over her mouth. He moaned at what he felt... _wet_.

"Were you wet after the stairs?" He asked her and she quickly nodded her head. He smiled then, for some strange reason he actually smiled. Janine had always needed more help in the bedroom; he was never truly capable of getting her completely aroused, she always stopped him before it got too far. The one time he did bring her to orgasm she was left in a terrible fright and asked him not to touch her the following night.

But Molly was dripping for him, mewling and moaning.

 _How can I want to fuck her and make love to her all at once?_ He thought madly.

"Si-sir, please... it hurts everywhere." She whimpered and before he could answer she gripped his wrist in her hand and locked eyes with his. His movements stilled as he looked at her. Pale and red and sweaty and beautiful. His thumb resumed its movements only more slowly now; rubbing her clit gently and teasingly.

"How do you feel?" He whispered, his lips inches from her own. She wanted him to kiss her again.

"I feel... empty." She replied and he kissed her savagely. She learned to kiss him back quickly.

 _If her quim feels empty, I'll give her something to fill it,_ he thought darkly and lustfully.

His beast inside was panting and drooling. Her hand still wrapped around his wrist as if guiding him in some way. He yanked her underwear aside roughly as he slid a finger inside her dripping entrance. Her body tensed at the unfamiliar invasion. But he worked her slowly, then more quickly, making sure her body adjusted to the new sensation.

And then he added a second finger. He was sure she was making a mess of his desk, but he didn't care. She was so tight, so warm, so welcoming. He felt her hands shaking as she tried to unbutton his shirt. He couldn't help her but watched as she tried to focus on her task while being fingered intently by this strange man who employed her.

 _The man who killed your father,_ he thought.

Eventually she got enough buttons open to slide her small hands into the opening of his shirt. She ran her hand down his muscular torso, feeling the bumps and plains of his abs. Sherlock kissed her deeply, running his tongue over hers, relishing in how seedy and disgusting the whole situation was.

Yes, they were breaking the law. They were breaking the law by even barely touching.

He broke the law every time he masturbated thinking of her. But now they were too far gone and Sherlock didn't want to stop.

Sherlock quickened the thrusting of his fingers into her cunt and she gasped and moaned hard against his neck as he cradled her little body against him.

"Please, it's- I can't- too much." She whimpered almost incoherently. Sherlock tilted her head back and looked into her eyes.

"Yes, yes you can." He told her sweetly and flicked his thumb across her clit, her backside rising a little off the desk she was so enraptured.

As Sherlock watched her find her ecstasy he felt his own rising as well. He reached out and took her hand, placing it on the significant bulge in his trousers. Molly almost went white as a sheet, then he flicked her clit again and she moved her hand along his trouser front.

"Take it out, please, Molly." He begged her and through her haze and lust filled fog she did but she dared not to look at it, still too afraid. Sherlock moaned hot and heavy into her neck as she stroked him with shy touches.

Sherlock tried to get Molly to cum first but he failed and he grunted hard, hips thrusting into air and hand as he came. He took a moment or two to catch his breath before thrusting his fingers harder into Molly. She whimpered and fell back against his desk, her chest rising and falling quickly.

And she did cum, she came all over his hand, his desk. She came with his mouth over hers, tongues slick and warm and lazily sliding against one another in their post orgasm euphoria. He swallowed her pleasure in his mouth and savored the taste.

When it was over he took her to an elevator and directed them to the guest rooms floor. There they cleaned up and he watched her from behind as she scrubbed her hands. There, the shame had returned. She felt it but Sherlock could not find it in himself to feel ashamed for taking pleasure from this woman.

Molly had only fought it because she had been raised to fight seeking the pleasure of a man and a married man (a married Watcher no less) was the worst offense she could make. She was conditioned her whole life to be chaste and remain virginal until the day she died.

For Molly was an Infertile. She could never have children and so what was the point of laying with a man if not to have children? Sexually, society saw her as useless. But society also saw her as a nurse or a maid or a school teacher. Still working within the capacity of children but never able to have one of her own. And because she had been habituated with all of this in her mind she had no idea what sexual pleasure was.

Well, then her father died and Sherlock came along and saved her from being destitute.

And for five years she had watched him, unaware of the meaning the feelings she felt when she saw him even meant. She rationalized it being that seeing him made her sick.

When Mr. Holmes would stand close by, her heart would not stop hammering away. When he touched her accidentally or on purpose (which was the more likely case) she felt dizzy and later on when she would go to the bathroom her underwear would be soaked as if she had wet herself but she knew she hadn't.

And yet Mr. Holmes was so unforgivingly cold to her and warm all at once. It was an enigma. A code she would not ever be able to crack no matter how many times and different ways she tried.

Sometimes when Molly could not sleep she would go about the house while everyone was asleep, or so she thought. She always ended up on the second floor where the master bedroom was. Where her Masters slept. And sometimes she would hear faint noises coming from inside the room. Silently, she would listen. Unaware of what was happening inside the marital bed. But why would she know or have an inkling to what was happening?

Molly would hear her Lady making faint sounds, her Master making even deeper noises that made him sound like some strange animal. Panting heavily, but almost trying to stifle such noises. And it was only after he had made his first advance on her (that was the only word she could think to describe it) did she realize that the very sounds she heard coming from her Master's bedroom were the same as when he would press himself to her.

It was all extremely confusing to her. Why touch her in such ways when he had a wife? Molly knew they were having trouble conceiving. The entire household knew. From the butler Mrs. Hudson the housekeeper to the lowest gardener. Even the mailman knew.

Molly wasn't stupid enough to believe he would want _her_ to have his children. He knew she couldn't. It was what made her the perfect candidate for the job. Or at least that's what she thought.

As Molly gently splashed some cold water on her fiery cheeks the reality of what they had done became more and more clear.

 _He could be arrested, I could be thrown into a factory!_ She thought frantically.

And as if he sensed her fear he gently touched her shoulder. She jumped a little then quickly apologize with frantic, "I'm sorry, Sir, oh god I'm so sorry!"

Sherlock silenced his girl by cupping her cheeks and kissing her forehead. He felt her hands grip his elbows tightly.

"You," he began but paused searching her glistening eyes, he felt his own moisten at the sight of her sweet young face. So fresh and warm and inviting. Trusting... trusting in _him_. He suddenly felt disgusted with himself. He released her and stepped back, noting how her hands reached out for him. "You should... get back to work. I've kept you too long." He said coldly, turning away from her unable to look at her another moment and never wanting to lose sight of her again.

"Sir?" She said worriedly.

"Damn it what are you waiting for!" He shouted suddenly, making her jump.

He felt her reaching out for him but he left the bathroom quickly and without another word. He found his tablet in his study and rushed to his car. He adjusted his tie and cleared his throat and did all he could to calm his beating his heart from hammering out of his ribcage.

 _Control,_ he thought again.


	3. CHAPTER TWO

**AN: Chapter contains thoughts of self harm.**

CHAPTER TWO

Janine knew and didn't know what her husband did for a living. She really didn't need to know. She knew he was important long before she was assigned to him; he was a Watcher which was law enforcement. The Elders believed they were a good match both physically and genetically. They believed and promised her children would not be far behind the ceremony.

But Janine had grown cold to her upbringing. She felt lied to. She felt deceived and taken advantage of. She would stare in the mirror of her vanity for minutes, sometimes hours depending on how despairing her mood was. Sometimes she had nightmares of being crushed to death underneath the weight of all the lies she had been told. And when her body was broken and not a single piece of her could mend itself together that was when she saw the truth of herself.

In her dream her guts were wires, her brain a hard drive. Her limbs mechanical and her womb a circuit board. In her dreams she was not a real woman. She was some mannequin they had dressed as the perfect mother. And when she would wake from her nightmare she would look to her husband who slept soundly on his back. He was probably dreaming of the children she feared she would never give him.

And further and further Janine would slip into the black hole that seemed to be her whole life.

After breakfast she would go to committee meetings filled with large pregnant women, waddling around in their tailored maternity gowns. She would go to clubs and luncheons with women who went on and on about how quickly their babies were growing. And all the while she would nod and smile, they would encourage her and tell her her time would come. But Janine only felt her womb ticking away until it would be fruitless and barren.

Sometimes, while looking at her face in the vanity, she would have this wild and insane idea to cut into her face. To peal away the layers of flesh and bone to see if she really was human after all. Android plants were not unheard of. Many androids were Watchers like her husband. They could fit and ease their way into society. Most of the time they were easily spotted by their strange way of walking, almost too perfect and obviously a program they were running in their head to make them appear more human.

Janine knew this was a mad idea. She was human. She would press her hand to her heart in the middle of the night to make sure it really was beating.

 _But could it be another deception?_ She would think only to herself.

Janine had no one to tell of her fears. So she kept them locked away within herself. Telling no one and suffering in a silent scream she wailed every day.

A knock at her door tore her away from the mirror. She picked up a brush and her favorite blush and began applying it evenly.

"Come." She called politely. In walked the made, Maddie, or whatever her name was. The girl was slight and pale. Pretty enough but that didn't matter. "You breakfast is ready ma'am," Maddie said bowing. Janine nodded curtly.

"Thank you, Maid. I'll be down in a jiffy." Janine said, putting on airs of being a happy and content wife.

 _How untrue my life is,_ she thought as the maid left.

Her husband had hired the girl. Something about knowing or owing her father, Janine couldn't really remember. It wasn't important to remember. She looked to her planner after finishing her makeup and dressing.

 _Doctor Lynn, 2:30._

Janine sighed. Another afternoon of tests. Of poking and prodding and spreading her legs. She sighed deeply, not wanting to leave her room. She wanted to wash the makeup away, rinse and scrub the lies from her face until it was raw and bloody. She wanted to get back under the covers and never leave. She placed a hand on her belly.

 _Where are you?_ She thought sadly before leaving her room for a breakfast she didn't want.

X

Station 4 was a beehive of information and data. Sherlock's office was on the third floor out of six. The POI, or Policing of Intelligence. He was head of the division, of course the average citizen didn't know that. He might have been in charge but he was still a grunt. He still went on patrols and was daily placed in dangerous situations. The life span of a Watcher wasn't long. In fact, at the time of his death, Molly's father had been the oldest Watcher, clocking in at forty six years old. Sherlock had been twenty five at the time.

Thirty now, possibly only five years left in him. If rebels or an unhinged citizen didn't kill him, his own partner would most likely. Never trust a Watcher, they're watching _you_.

By eight thirty he had filed the last of his paperwork and sat still in his black office chair and waited for the tablet to alert him with a new assignment from the Captain of the station. He folded his hands in his lap and decided to meditate. But the morning was still fresh in his mind, like the freshness of new sheets or just after you've brushed your teeth after a long day.

He could still smell Molly on himself. He should have changed his clothes before he left. Even after washing his hands he could still smell her essence. How tight she had been, how taut. Like a bow string ready to snap. He remained entranced by her and disgusted with himself. He had allowed his foolish emotions to take over. Reason and logic and reality had been thrown in front of a truck, smashing to bloody red bits. Lust, pleasure and selfishness had taken over. And it had all left him with a terrible headache.

But he was also not highly concerned. Molly had pleaded that it was against the law, he knew that better than anyone. He arrested men daily for infidelity offenses. However those men were normal everyday citizens. Your average shopkeeper, supermarket employee. In Sherlock's world, it was considered normal to have a mistress. He had vowed to his wife on the day of their ceremony that he wouldn't. And he had assured himself that he wouldn't.

And yet the prospect and idea that Molly could be his without question gnawed at him. Like a phantom itch.

Sherlock's tablet beeped, alerting him to a new assignment. He read through the data and pressed a blue button on a keypad and waited. Three minutes later a knock came to is door.

"Come." He said and the door opened, ushering in the buzz and noise of the hall outside.

A woman entered, closing the door elegantly behind her. Her movements towards him were practiced, almost lifting her feet a little too high off the ground.

"Irene." Sherlock said standing, buttoning his suit.

The woman named Irene was not technically a woman at all. She was what Janine feared she was. Irene was a fifth generation Synthetic Humanoid. Android for lack of a better term. Her skin was pale, but she had been made with makeup already adhered to her false flesh. Her hair was pulled back into a simple bun, her clothes fit her perfectly. There were many IA's working for the stations. This IA (or more correctly: Irene Adler 2001) was Station 4's synthetic humanoid.

And she was assigned to Sherlock as his new partner. It was a new trial the higher ups were trying. Sherlock suspected that one day his whole department, in fact all the departments, were going to be run by IA's of some model or generation.

"Mission statement." Irene said, her voice androgynous and soft. Yet there were a murderer behind those false brown eyes. Her doe-eyed expression was a lie. She was more a lethal than Sherlock. It was all she was designed for.

"House call, Mr. Chambers reported his wife missing yesterday morning. However staff in the house claim she's been missing for a month." Sherlock said, reading out loud. He removed his jacket and took his holster and gun and strapped it on. He handed Irene the tablet. She removed a USB cable from her pocket and pressed down on a hidden flesh tone button her wrist. She plugged herself in and downloaded the data.

When it was transferred they made their way to the garage.

Mr. Chambers was a lawyer who made a living doing something Sherlock didn't care about. He glanced at Irene out of the corner of his eye. She sat still, slightly swaying with the natural movement of the car. But she didn't blink or breathe. Why would she?

 _Barely human,_ he thought.

It was like driving around with a lifesize doll in the passenger seat. But he didn't mind her really as a partner. At least she didn't make stupid small talk or ask him what he did on the weekends. He always kept his safety on his gun off though when with her. He did with any partner he had, but he had been smart to take extra precautions with Irene.

You could read a human being, learn their tells and know when they were lying. He couldn't with Irene. And Sherlock hated it.

First of all she was programmed never to lie but she was capable of keeping things to herself, second of all she wasn't human therefore she didn't develop the ticks and tells a normal person would. You never knew what she was thinking. And that was the most frightening thing about her.

They pulled up to Mr. Chamber's expensive mansion. A one level mansion, complete with tennis court, an indoor swimming pool and an outdoor swimming pool with a rooftop hot tub.

The gate opened and Sherlock pulled in.

Tea was offered and refused. They were seated in a sitting room, the blinds closed. There were no pictures of loved ones or a happy couple. It could be it was arranged like Sherlock's own marriage. He didn't have any pictures of himself and Janine. He didn't see the point and neither did she. The man did however boast a large collection of photographs of his dogs.

Doberman Pinschers. Prize winning dogs. He lived in a sector that allowed canines. A few times, as he and Irene waited, he heard the dogs barking from somewhere far away. It was a large dog. Lithe, thin and muscular with an intimidating history. But known to those who owned them as a loving and gentle breed.

 _Redbeard..._

Mr. Chambers entered the sitting room, looking pale and slightly sweaty. They shook hands and Sherlock's suspicions were confirmed. The man was quite nervous. And very, very, very guilty.

Irene took a visual scan of Mr. Chambers, noting his blood pressure and heart rate and filed it away in her memory banks.

"You must understand it's quite distressing." Mr. Chambers said, moping about the sitting room with a cup of tea he hadn't so much as sipped.

"Of course." Sherlock replied conversationally.

"No, you don't understand," Mr. Chambers said, his voice shaky. "Gloria is a good woman. She wouldn't just run off. She knows the rules."

Sherlock "hmmed" and listened on to the man. He didn't need to take notes, that's what Irene was good for. Besides, it was a curse for Sherlock that he mentally retained everything.

Mr. Chambers went on to explain the last time he had seen his wife. What she was wearing, who she was with. The couple had been a party a friend's house. His wife left early and he hadn't seen her since.

"What kind of party was this, Mr. Chambers?" Sherlock asked.

"Is that prudent, Sir?" Mr. Chambers asked, clutching his saucer ever tighter.

"Quite prudent, Mr. Chambers. We will also need to know whose house it was and who also attended the party. For your alibi of course." Sherlock said, smiling in a way that said, "I'm gonna nail you to the cross".

The man gulped and sat down across from the two officers.

"A birthday party." Mr. Chambers lied, Sherlock knew it and even better Irene knew it. But neither pressed the matter. The cup and saucer the man held quaked lightly.

"You must understand it's strange that your staff says Mrs. Chambers has been missing for a whole month, not a week." Sherlock said and Mr. Chamber's eyes bulged.

"You can't be serious!" The older man cried, surprised but not believable enough. Sherlock nodded his head.

"I'm quite serious Mr. Chambers. I'd like you to come with us to the station for further interrogation." Sherlock said standing, Irene following his lead. She removed handcuffs from her belt.

"This is absurd! My wife is missing! You can't do this to me." Mr. Chambers said, he tried struggling as Irene cuffed him but it was useless. She had the strength of ten men.

"I thought you of all people, counselor, would know that we can do whatever we like. I'll also be sending a team down to examine your dogs." Sherlock explained, Mr. Chambers stilled his struggling.

"My... my dogs?" Mr. Chambers asked fearfully. Sherlock nodded. He hoped what he suspected wasn't true. But if it was... "Please don't hurt them. They're good boys. They're... they're my pride and joy."

" _Clean up your mess, Sherlock! God, stupid rodent."_

Sherlock felt his blood run cold at the archiact phrase.

"Get him out." He ordered Irene and she did so without a word.

 _Pride and joy, what about your wife? What about your_ wife! John thought, and it was then he felt the first pangs of guilt for that morning. He had felt disgusted with himself yes, but Janine had never entered into the equation. What about his wife? Her pride and joy was that she wanted a child. His was his job and self control.

 _What about_ your _wife, Sherlock?_ His mind sang to him.

The team Sherlock sent to the house confirmed his theory and discovered the terrible thing he had suspected.

Mrs. Chambers had indeed been murdered by her husband. And slowly, over the course of a month, had been slowly feeding her dismembered body to his pride and joy. The dogs were indeed put down. And it broke the man in half.

"My boys, my boys." He cried, snot running down his face. Never once did he say why he killed his wife. Never once did he show any sign of remorse for bludgeoning her head in, chopping her up and feeding her to his dogs. No, the man only cried for his dogs.

"Strange." Irene said as she and Sherlock stared at the weeping man through the two way mirror. "He cries for the canines but not his wife. Is this a normal human trait?" Irene asked. Sherlock shook his head.

"Nothing about humans is normal, Irene." He said before returning to his office.


	4. CHAPTER THREE

**AN: Chapter contains extreme sexuality.**

CHAPTER THREE

The house was dark and quiet when Sherlock returned home. He forced himself to go up the front staircase which would take him to his bedroom, instead of going around to the kitchen staircase which would take him near the servants quarters. Near Molly...

He knocked on the bedroom door, there was still a light. He didn't wait for an answer and entered. Janine lay in bed with a book.

"The Joy of Motherhood" was her favorite. He stifled a groan when he saw it. He leaned down and kissed her forehead. She reached up one a hand and cupped his cheek and pressed her lips to his chastely. It wasn't uncommon for her to do that.

"Will you take me tonight?" She asked very clinically. He sighed and shook his head.

"I'm tired." He said and began to change. He heard her indignant sigh. She slammed her book down on the night table and began to pout. As she always did when she didn't get her way. Sherlock was used to it and easily ignored it, most of the time. However not tonight. He was in no mood for her temper tantrums.

Sherlock marched over to her and grabbed her by the forearm, yanking her towards him.

"Stop being a brat!" He shouted and she jerked away from him. He had never raised his voice to her before or touched her in such a way that made her fear him. Husbands weren't supposed to do that to their wives!

"Let me go, Sherlock!" She cried and he released her.

"Go to bed." He ordered. She didn't dare raise her voice to him or pout or mumble under her breath. She simply turned on her side and closed her eyes, suddenly very afraid of him when she never had been before.

Sherlock laid down next to her and tried to sleep. He sighed and looked over at her. She was awake and staring at him.

"I can't sleep." She whispered in the dark. He closed his eyes and stood walking to the door.

"Where are you going? I told you I can't sleep." She said again, that whining tone returning to her voice. Sherlock pulled on a t-shirt put a hand on the doorknob.

"Then take a damn pill." He snapped before he left. He did and didn't know where he was going. And he ended up exactly where he knew he shouldn't.

Sherlock slowly and quietly opened Molly's door, it wasn't locked. It had no lock. He had been in this room many times. She just didn't know that part. He once crept into her room when she was busy doing something else, he had laid in her bed and breathed in her scent.

Molly was asleep, curled up onto her side facing away from him in her full size bed. She never asked why she was the only member of staff with such a large bed and her own room.

No one ever questioned it. They weren't allowed to. More importantly they weren't even allowed to think of such things. So they didn't.

Sherlock sat down on the side of the bed, her back to him still. She wore a simple pink t-shirt. He wondered if she wore anything else to bed. He reached out and touched her arm, shaking her awake gently. She moaned sleepily and turned over. Startled to see him she pulled the covers up higher.

"Sir!" She whispered sharply in the dark. He pressed a finger to his lips and she silenced herself.

"What do you need?" She asked when the silence dragged on for too long.

"You'll tell me it's wrong," he began quietly and she looked confused. "Indecent. You'll tell me many things. But I want you Molly. I want you."

Molly didn't fully understand what he was saying. Only from their previous encounters did she have some grasp on what he said. She shook her head but suddenly his mouth was on hers and he was pressing her back into the mattress and pillows. She gasped as he claimed her lips and fell upon her.

"Please, Sir," she whimpered, gripping his strong arms and feeling his muscles ripple beneath her hands. Her core was ablaze, slickening in what felt like seconds.

Sherlock responded with more rough kisses, more hands and tongue. More nips at her neck. She clenched her eyes shut as he pulled every feeling she had never felt before to the surface, into the light.

But where she bathed in sunlight, he wallowed in the darkness.

Sherlock was pleased to see she wore only underwear under the covers. He pushed a hand up her shirt, gently squeezing her small breast and manipulating her nipple to hardness. She cried out as he lowered his head to her chest. Her hands dug into his soft dark hair, those dark blue eyes gazing up at her; hooded with lust. A word she still didn't know.

"Did you touch yourself tonight?" He asked her and she frowned at him, confused. He smirked, she had no idea what he meant even still.

"Did you take your hand and touch yourself between your legs?" He said more directly, almost impatiently, as if he was panting to know the answer.

Molly blushed furiously at his words and looked away from him. His smiled widened.

"You did didn't you?" He whispered against her tummy. He licked lower. She sat up and attempted to push him away. He sat up as well, placing a hand on either side of her waist and met her halfway, kissing her hard once more. She had propped herself on her elbows, meaning to try and fight him away but she couldn't, and she didn't want to.

Without much effort or resistance, Sherlock made her lie back down. He propped her legs up, so her feet were flat on the bed. He tore his shirt off and returned to the space between her legs. She was shaking all over. And when he ran a finger over her clothed entrance she tried jerking her legs closed.

"Oh god, please..." She begged him fruitlessly. He leaned down and inhaled her sweet, innocent scent. It almost seemed a pity to take her. But he wanted her and needed to cum inside her. He needed to fuck himself into her again and again. No matter how many times she begged him to stop, he would have her.

And truthfully, she never had told him to stop...

He tore her panties off and pushed her legs open.

"Sir..." she whimpered helplessly.

"Don't fight me," he said to her as he pressed a finger to her opening. She covered her face with her hands. After a minute or two of gently stroking her with one he added a second. And then he added his mouth. She let out a moan and then a shocked gasped. Her eyes were wide and bulged greatly at his assault.

"You- you... shouldn't-" She managed to say. But he didn't stop. His other hand reached up to grasp her swollen breast beneath her shirt. He felt a hand grip his shoulder, not pushing him away. Pulling him closer, her little fingers sliding the nape of his... _holding_ him there.

Sherlock continued until he felt her breath quickening. She was on the edge. He wanted her to cum. He wanted her to break free from her conditioning. He wanted her to cum on his tongue and then he would make her taste her liberation.

And she did, again and again. The tremors rocked her body as she unknowingly thrust her hips against his mouth. He held her down with one hand on her hip and the other holding her hand, their fingers interlocked with one another. He didn't realize he had taken her hand in his, or maybe she had done that.

Molly panted heavily as she came down from her high. He loomed over her, both hands on either side of her head. She stared at him breathless. He leaned down and pressed his mouth to hers. Too weak to fight him she opened her mouth and tasted herself on his tongue. And then she felt something pressing hard between her legs, against her exposed womanhood.

Still too weak to move away from him she let him press it back and forth against her. It was hard, felt thick as he moved against her. And then he reached between them and moved his hand about for a few seconds.

"What now?" She whispered against his lips. He kissed her forehead and pressed his bare cock against her still twitching and dripping cunt. She gasped at the feel of it and out of instinct she tried to move away.

"Don't be afraid." He told her gently and began pressing the head of his cock against her opening. She tensed a little then relaxed, placing her hands gently to his sweaty chest, her thumbs making small circles of their accord.

" _I am_." She confessed to him. He paused. Should he take her? What would happen after? If they were found out she would taken away and he would executed... high treason for going again his sacred vows. Cardinal Magnusson was just looking for an excuse to get rid of Sherlock; it was only Sherlock's brother who had kept him in line all these years...

What of Molly? His sweet, Molly. His one true girl. And the guilt began to mount as he thought of her father; as he thought of brain matter hitting glass, there had been no shock, no anger... all he asked was-

As Sherlock tried to make a decision something pulled him closer and he felt the warmth of her core meet his aching cock. And further into her he was gripped and he gasped. And he realized _she_ had done that.

Molly cried out and pushed her hips further upwards towards him. He couldn't believe it! _She_ had taken _him_ into her. He didn't need to think anymore. He only needed to feel her. He stroked her face as her sheath wrapped around him like a tight, hot glove.

Sherlock wrapped her legs around his waist, her feet resting just above his backside. He pulled out a little and pushed back in gently. He remembered the night he took Janine for the first time. She had been silent, unmoving, not very wet. It had been as unpleasant for him as it had been for her, well, more so for her.

But Molly was dripping, she was mewling. Pulling him into her, attempting to meet his thrusts though he was sure she didn't know why. But now the deep, primal instinctual part of her that been repressed was awakening.

"Does it still hurt?" He managed to say, he had stopped to make sure she was alright. She nodded her head, her bangs sticking to her sweaty forehead. The small, dark room smelled of sex. It was a heavy odor Sherock wanted to never be without and one he would always associate with Molly. Sherlock glanced down at his girl. Her shirt had ridden up over her sweet, delicate breasts. As she reached up to cup his face in her hands her arms squeezed her breasts together. He watched little beads of sweat drip down between them.

Sherlock wondered if she knew how heavily erotic he found her right now.

 _Surely, she must know..._ he thought.

He kept up his gentle thrusting for a little while, she grew accustomed to his length and thickness.

"Does it feel good?" He whispered into her ear, needing to know, and she nodded her head.

"Everything is on fire." She whispered back to him. Sherlock could hold back no longer. He gripped her hard against him and pushed himself as far into her as he could go. She gasped loudly as he held himself there for a moment. And then began fucking into her with short hard thrusts that shook the bed and forced the air out of her lungs.

"Oh." She managed to whimper. She stared at the ceiling with a dumbfounded look on her face. She could make out the side of his head, his hot breath against her neck, the room seemed to glow in the darkness.

Molly had never felt such sensations before and she could think of nothing else. Everything from his kisses, to his manhood, to his flesh against hers, felt so foreign. She had been taught from an early age to _never_ allow herself, let alone a man, to evoke such feelings in her.

For they were evil, debauched feelings meant to be suppressed and denied. They were the feelings that could send her to a factory and worse for him.

But now, as he pressed into her, she felt damned and didn't care.

 _Let him never stop, never... never..._ she thought helplessly in her mind.

"Fuck." Sherlock groaned hard into her neck. He quickened his pace, he felt himself nearing the end. And it had never felt so amazing, so agonizing, so wrong...

Suddenly he had an urge to hold her down, to see a flash of fear in her eyes. It hardened him even more. He sat up on his knees and gripped her wrists in his hands and kept them pinned down at her sides.

Out of instinct once more she fought him and he delighted as the fear returned to her glassy eyes.

"Trust me." He said quietly, lovingly even.

She watched as every muscle in his body flexed and moved beneath his skin. He didn't look real for a moment. Her wrists ached.

 _Why did he hold me down? Did all men do this?_

Sherlock thrust harder into her and it hurt a little. But she felt that rising feeling again, the one she had felt when his mouth had been on her. It wasn't nearly as intense and it ended sooner than the first. But watching Mr. Holmes suddenly moan loudly, throw his head back with his abs flexing beautifully made it more pleasurable.

Sherlock pumped his cock into her hard and fast, the sounds of the sexes slapping against one another filled the room. Her panting and his moaning could not be ignored by others if they were awake. And he didn't really care if they had woken anyone.

"Oh god." He groaned, collapsing on top of her and kissing her neck.

Molly's eyes fluttered, she realized she had been biting her lips and it was swollen. She felt his kisses travel to her shoulder and a hand gripped the side of her face strongly.

For a moment they marveled at one another; taking in one another's presence. It was as if they were meeting for the first time. An awakening neither had ever expected.

A word came to Sherlock's mind, one he had never said before. And one he felt possessed and compelled to say. But when he opened his mouth to say it he couldn't.

Like being shot in the heart, Sherlock felt the rush of cold, hard reality. And in place of that mysterious and sacred word, he felt bitterness.

An unusual resentment found it's place in his heart.

 _What have I done?_ He thought, like a wild animal who had wandered into a trap.

 _What if she's a spy sent by Magnusson to destroy me!_

Sherlock tore himself away from her and sat with his back to her. He was shaking, the high was muddled, his brain overworking, over stimulated. His muscles twitched in the afterglow of his orgasmn. He could still feel her around his cock.

"Sir?" He heard Molly's faint whisper in the dark.

 _I'll know if she's lying,_ he thought quickly. He turned back to her, grabbing his hard by the arms and pulling her into the dark light with him. She looked dazed, once more confused by his behavior but not entirely unsurprised by it.

Sherlock searched his girl's face for any sign she was herself one great lie.

But he found nothing; only a simple maid, ravaged and tainted by her employer. A man she was supposed to trust.

Sherlock now felt the guilt once more. He wasn't a man she could trust. He had taken everything from her. He had murdered her father, taken her home, placed her under his watchful eye and then ruined her body. He had taken so much from her and she didn't even know it.

He released her arms and those little hands came up to touch his face.

"Sir? Please, what can I do? Why do you cry?" She asked him.

Sherlock realized his cheeks were wet and not from perspiration. He drew in a deep breath and stood, finding his clothes.

"You will not speak of this to _anyone_." Sherlock ordered, his back still to her.

"What... what was this, Sir?" She asked him, her voice shaking. Why would he be so kind to her with his kisses, with his... whatever it was they did and then turn on her so? Was cruelty a part of they did? Did he treat her Lady in such a way?

Molly felt for the first time in her life, jealously.

 _He takes her too, perhaps she's better at it than I,_ she thought miserably.

Sherlock listened at the door, he saw no light coming from the other side and heard no noise. He didn't even know what time it was. He could not have been long. Janine would be asleep by the time he returned to their bed.

"Sir, please, what did we do that I mustn't speak of?" Molly pleaded.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment.

 _Look at her damn it, she doesn't understand! How could she?_

Sherlock did look at her. He returned to the bed, pulling the covers over her thighs, he reached down and handed her her underwear.

"You know what we did, you know it was wrong," he said to her quickly and she nodded. "They would take you from me. I won't let that happen, Molly. Not now, not ever."

"Why did you do it?" She asked him, almost childishly. Sherlock sighed deeply and kissed her forehead.

"One day you'll know why. Now rest a while, before everyone wakes up I want you to change your sheets and dispose of these. Understood?" Molly nodded again.

When Sherlock left her he stood outside her door for a moment or two. He went to his study and took a shower in the bathroom connected to it. He rinsed and rinsed so hard his flesh turned red.

And no matter how hard his scrubbed, no matter how much soap he used, Molly's scent remained.

They had imprinted on one another. He had showed her what men were capable of and she had shown him what the love of a good woman could be even if she didn't realize it.

Sherlock would lie to himself; he knew she only knew what fatherly love was. But there had been something in her eyes akin to love, perhaps.

 _Who are you trying to fool?_ He thought as he wrapped a hand around the doorknob of the bedroom he shared with Janine. _No one could ever love you._


	5. CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FOUR

John Watson was a man of many talents. Not the least of which was gathering intelligence on his neighbors and coworkers. Living out different lie after different lie, day in and day out.

The years of turning innocent men and women in for the Cardinal Law had eaten and eaten away at him like a bacteria. He felt infected. He was not a good man. A veteran of the battles at Crescent Creek and Magnolia Hill, he had seen his fair share of death.

But now he wanted out, he wanted out of his life espionage and spying, of murder and bloodshed. He wanted to settle down with a woman, have a family and live in a good sector.

John Watson wanted many things. Whether or not the Cardinal Law and the Watchers would believe he had served his purpose and deserved to be free was an entirely different matter.

 _Are we ever really free?_ John thought.

When John was twelve he stole water; a basic necessity any citizen should be allowed to have. However because of his status he was seen as unfit to have daily water and received it only every other day. He was young, angry and thirsty. He did what anyone would do and he stole it.

John was caught right away by the Watchers and dragged before a Cardinal Judge for sentencing. For some reason no one, not even John knew, the Cardinal spared him time in a prison or child factory and instead recruited him.

John remembers the Watchers well; cloaked in black, like Death's reapers, minions from on high sent to scoop him up and carry him away in their black chariots of terror.

For the rest of his youth John was trained as a soldier and a spy. He fitted in everywhere and his track record was impeccable. Even getting shot four times didn't stop him. He had also been the only man in the field to successfully disarm and terminate a rogue Synthetic Humanoid, third generation of its model and it was immediately discontinued after the incident.

The android had malfunctioned after accidentally downloading a virus from a resistence computer and then went on a bloody rampage for twenty four hours.

The rogue SH destroyed five sectors before John, with nothing but a sidearm, put it out of it's misery. Bullets can harm an android, you just have to shoot them in their hard drive. It won't kill them but it will cause a blackout. During the SH's blackout, John used a toolkit to open the back of it's head and remove the Life-Line; the part of the robotic brain that kept it alive.

John had been seen as a hero and he went on living the life of a soldier and a spy. Even through the years of training and torture and conditioning, John never forgot home. He never got the sister and brother he left behind or the parents he never saw again after stealing water, stealing to survive. He assumed his family died of starvation or thirst.

So, here the great spy and war hero stood.

Station 4, where the Watchers watched and the Cardinals watched them. He looked at his tablet and brought up his appointment reminder.

 _ **Appointment with S. Holmes Deputy Director of Intelligence and Cardinal Law Consultant, 1:00 PM**_ _._

 _Well, that's a mouthful of a title,_ John thought.

He took a deep and breath entered the building. He wasn't nervous persay, he just wanted to get it over with. He had to ask his superior officer's superior officer first. And then from there he had to get written permission to speak to a Watcher at Station 6 who would oversee his case. And from there he needed that Watcher's written recommendation that he speak to someone at Station 4 with high enough rank who would either grant his request for a transfer and retirement or deny it.

 _They're not short on hoops to jump through,_ John thought to himself.

He knew they wouldn't make it easy on him. The Cardinal Law tried to make it as hard for any of their citizens (no matter their background or upbringing) to do anything.

Discouragement at its most refined.

John approached the receptionist, placing a hand on the clear surface of the counter, glancing briefly at the many security cameras, but only with his eyes. Years of training to know when he was being watched kicked in. He was instantly on edge, high on alert.

But he remained calm, for he knew of what little else to do.

 _They could end me if they wanted to right now,_ he thought.

"Name." The nondescript woman behind the glass counter said, her tone flat.

"Captain John Watson." He said simply.

"Hand print please." She said, passing him a tablet with a cable connected to her computer at her desk.

John went through the various security motions. Hand print, verbal identification, retinal scan, urine test for DNA confirmation. And lastly an evaluation with a psychologist.

The psychologist in question was a thirty something year old woman with dark skin and pretty eyes. She spoke calmly and softly. If wasn't for the subtle lines near the corners of her eyes John would have thought she was an android.

But there weren't hundreds of different models when it came to the Synthetic Humanoids. As far as John knew, there were only four different models- well, three now that the fourth had been terminated permanently. .

"Are you happy?" She asked him. John didn't know her name and they both knew he didn't need it. They'd never meet again after today. They sat in a little room with a two way mirror. John had a few ideas who might be behind it.

"Define happy," he said with a chuckle. She scribbled something down on her pad.

"Are you seeing anyone?" She asked.

"No, no I haven't really had the time to apply for a companion." He answered honestly.

"But you've had sexual intercourse recently?" She asked him blankly.

John nodded. He was male after all. She jotted something down on her pad. He took notice-

" _ **Sexually**_ _ **active**_ _ **,"**_ it read.

"When was the last time you killed someone?" She asked.

Pointed, standard questions filtered out of her on command.

"Just today?" He joked again and she drew a line underneath her second to last sentence.

"You're deflecting." She said simply. He shrugged.

"I'm being honest."

"You killed someone today?"

"No, that part I was lying. Obviously."

"Yes. _Obviously_."

The interview went on like that for a while. Back and forth, question and answer. No real progress but they determined he wasn't insane or an anarchist.

After two hours of being interviewed, scanned and declared that his urine did truly belong to him he was lead to Mr. Holmes' office.

Mr. Holmes was not in yet, he was off on assignment and John was ordered, not asked, to wait.

The chair was comfortable as far as sitting chairs went. He crossed his legs then uncrossed them. He felt himself growing a little nervous but he refused to get his hopes up. He decided that to expect the expected (being denied) was the best course of action. That way when the inevitable did finally happen he wouldn't be disappointed.

After twenty minutes of waiting the door burst open and a tall man with dark hair entered, followed by a SH, the IA model- or the Irene's as they were called.

Mr. Holmes took no notice of John at first, tearing his tie off and unbuttoning the first two buttons on his shirt. He looked flustered and yet strangely dignified. He was older than most Watchers that John had encountered.

The Irene immediately noticed John. He stood and she held out her hand in a queer, plastic and practiced manner.

"Hello," John said politely. He knew she was scanning him and determining his purpose.

"Captain John Watson," the Irene said smiling, her teeth perfect and abnormal at the same time.

"Ah, yes, that's me." John replied, she held his hand in hers.

"The only human to disable an android," she said without emotion, tone or pitch in her voice. It unnerved him. "Tell me, does killing a human feel the same as killing an android?"

John paused, glanced at Mr. Holmes who was busying himself at his desk and flipping through a computer pad.

"It doesn't." John replied. The Irene released his hand.

"Fascinating." She said and then turned her attention to Mr. Holmes.

"I must reboot and upload the mission reports of today." She informed her boss who only nodded and shooed her away with a hand motion. If she were human perhaps she would take offense (depending on the human of course) but Irene wasn't so after Mr. Holmes' dismissal she simply ignored John and departed.

"Please, have a seat." Mr. Holmes said, finally acknowledging John's presence.

"Thank you." John said sitting.

Mr. Holmes opened his desk drawer without sitting and removed a new tie from it and began tying it around his neck.

"So sorry, bit of blood." Mr. Holmes said, he finished without another word and picked up his tablet. "Captain John Watson it has come to my direct attention you're requesting transfer and or retirement."

John nodded.

"Yes, well, that's why I'm here." John said, folding his hands in his hand.

"I presume this is because of your wound?" Mr. Holmes inquired. John shook his head.

"No, shot four times healed nicely." John said with a polite smile. Mr. Holmes also smiled but there was something rude and devious about it.

"I'm not referring to your combat injuries, Captain Watson." Mr. Holmes said and John narrowed his eyes.

 _What the hell-_

"I am, however, referring to the injury you sustained when you were a child at the hands of someone much older than you," Mr. Holmes paused, waiting for John to correct him, which the shorter man did not do. "Beat you quite badly, didn't he?"

John cleared his throat.

"He?" John questioned and Mr. Holmes nodded.

"Yes," Mr. Holmes said, leaning his hand on his chin, pointing lazily with a finger. "When Irene introduced herself, in her own disturbing way, you turned your head slightly to the right which told me you're hard of hearing in your left and you watched her lips as she spoke, clearly not a sign of attraction or your eyes would have dilated.

A person with perfectly normal hearing wouldn't do such thing but you've had this condition for quite some time and have trained yourself to tilt your head and read lips- however you've never had it fixed. Spy, soldier, medical training as well judging from your hands, but you never had your hearing fixed. Why?"

John wasn't quite sure where or how to begin. He had never told anyone that. It was true though, all of it. When John had been caught stealing water the Watcher who found him beat him, slapping him again and again in his left ear. And for some reason none of his doctors over the course of his life had ever noticed it.

John wanted to keep it; an invisible scar, a bloody and bruising personal trophy to remind him what these types of men were capable of doing to a child. Beating them to deafness.

The Watcher's face flashed with amazement at his own trick.

"How... how could you possibly know that?" John asked him, his mouth had gone dry.

Mr. Holmes smirked and shrugged.

"I didn't, you just told me." Mr. Holmes replied.

John sighed and felt the meeting coming to an end. He felt like he had just failed a test.

"Captain Watson you're a good field officer and an impressive foot soldier," Mr. Holmes began and John couldn't help but snicker. "I'm willing to grant your request."

John held his breath and locked eyes with the man sitting opposite him.

"You what?" John asked, sounding more shocked than he had meant to.

"Yes. However, there will be a stipulation." Mr. Holmes went on.

"Of course there would be."

"Work with me, one month, Watcher's salary."

John nearly choked at the offer.

"I-I'm sorry, am I in the wrong office?" John said glancing around the spartan room for any sign this was a trick or a game. Mr. Holmes shook his head.

"Of course not. I may use of a man with your abilities. A case landed on my desk this morning, one I had hoped I could dispatch today with Irene's help but she... well, she lacks the human touch."

"Meaning?" John questioned.

"Meaning she tore out a man's throat today for information. Hence my new tie." Mr. Holmes replied.

John inwardly grimaced at the thought, he glanced down at his hand that had shaken the Irene's. Hours before she had mutilated a man with that same hand, possibly, the same hand. And then she went on to ask him personal questions about killing.

 _Huh, all makes sense now,_ he thought.

"So, one month helping me with a case." Mr. Holmes reminded him.

"Why a month?"

"Because that's when I think I'll have solved it."

"What's the case?"

Mr. Holmes brought John to the mortuary. Four men lay naked on slabs under bright light in the sterile room.

"What do you think?" Mr. Holmes asked and John observed the bodies and studied them, making mental notes.

"All men, late twenties-early thirties. Bullet wound to the back of the head." John said, all of it was quite obvious.

"Meaning?" Mr. Holmes asked immediately.

"Well, either they didn't see their attacker coming-"

"-which is _highly_ unlikely-"

"-or... they were executed."

Mr. Holmes smiled broadly.

"My thoughts exactly. Someone is trying to send a statement. And that someone is going around murdering Watchers. You can see why Cardinal Law and the Elders want me to tie this up quite quickly." Mr. Holmes explained. John nodded.

"I thought only Watchers murdered Watchers," John said jokingly. Mr. Holmes shrugged.

"Apparently not. Be here tomorrow morning for mission statement. Irene will have your security clearance when you leave." Mr. Holmes said moving to exit the mortuary.

John frowned.

"Wait," he said and Mr. Holmes did. "How did you know I would accept?"

Mr. Holmes cleared his throat, for the first time seeming... undone? Unsure? John couldn't tell.

"You've served your masters well. One should be rewarded for their efforts." Mr. Holmes said before departing from the dead room, leaving John alone.

The man sighed and glanced once more at the dead Watchers. He stepped up to one of them and stared. He was used to death but this was different. He had never seen a dead Watcher before. There was something so... inhuman about them. Worse than Irene.

They were still human but lacked everything that was important about _being_ human. It seemed only appropriate that they should be working side by side with sociopathic robots who would kill without a second thought. That's what they seemed to long to be, after all.

As John returned to the first floor to leave, Irene was indeed waiting there for him.

Irene walked him out.

"You worked with him a while now?" John asked her and she nodded.

"Correct. I know him well." Irene replied.

"Right. Well, see you tomorrow."

"Be careful, Captain Watson," Irene called and John turned back, looking at her queerly. She pointed strangely to the traffic. "Look both ways." She warned him. John couldn't tell if she was _trying_ be polite by telling him to watch for oncoming cars or if there was something more foreboding in her warning.

And what of Mr. Holmes himself? He knew that John was practically deaf in one ear. How could he have known that after barely being in the same room with him for more than three minutes?

John felt that there were plenty of things he didn't know in the coming weeks. He wondered if this final mission would his last? Whether in a happy ending way or a fatal one, he didn't know.


	6. CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER FIVE

 **AN: WARNING FOR ATTEMPTED SUICIDE AND MENTIONS OF SELF ABUSE and EXTREME SEXUAL CONTENT!**

The meeting with Captain John Watson had gone better than Sherlock had expected. He had been quietly following the man's career for some time, extremely impressed with his war record.

Sherlock first took note of him when the Captain dispatched the rogue SH after it had gone on a killing spree five years ago. Since then, Sherlock would make periodical check ups on the man.

So when Captain John Watson had applied for a transfer and retirement Sherlock immediately jumped at the chance to meet him.

Sherlock would never admit out loud that he admired certain people. It just wasn't done, not for him anyway. Giving out compliments was not something he readily did and thankfully he worked with Irene who never needed to hear such acclimations.

But there was something different about this Captain Watson. He was different from any other soldier or spy Sherlock had ever met.

Captain Watson was very... _human_. He was emotional, had a personality, he joked and had a dark sense of humor. Sherlock liked him, of course he would never admit that out loud either.

When the case landed on his desk that morning that four Watchers had been murdered in a short period of time and marrying that with Captain John Watson applying for transfer, Sherlock couldn't resist. Why he felt so compelled to enlist the man was beyond him. Perhaps because John was everything Sherlock wanted to be but wasn't allowed to be.

Emotional, funny... _loved_.

Irene dropped Sherlock off at Baker St. Mrs. Hudson greeted him at the door with a sad look on her face.

"Mrs. Hudson?" He inquired but she only shook her head, tears filling her eyes, and she pointed to the staircase. Instantly Sherlock knew what was the cause of his housekeeper's tears.

Sherlock ran up the stairs and to Janine's room- _their_ room- and found her surrounded by a couple of doctors and two nurses. She was pale and sleeping but murmuring gibberish. He noticed the bandages on her wrists they had so terribly tried to hide. He felt his blood run cold.

 _No one called me?_

"Everyone out." He ordered. They all stood around, staring at him like stupid rats.

"I said OUT!" He shouted, his voice bouncing off the cold walls and causing everyone to jump. They hurried away, Mrs. Hudson shooing them out and when Sherlock was alone with his wife she moved to close the door.

"Mrs. Hudson," he said without looking at her. The elderly woman paused. "Please, I want you to care for her. She needs," Sherlock felt a sob threatening to tear through his esophagus. He cleared his throat. "She needs... mothering. Will you do this for?"

Sherlock felt Mrs. Hudson approach and noticed he had taken Janine's cold hand delicately in his own. His thumb brushing back and forth across her knuckles.

"Don't blame yourself." Mrs. Hudson said kindly, gripping his shoulder. He chuckled sadly, the sob growing stronger.

"Who else is there to blame? I can't give her what she needs, what she wants most in all the world. And you know something, Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock finally turned his head to look at the dear old woman, the woman who had been more a mother to him than his own.

Mrs. Hudson looked upon him like he were a broken toy. Not a broken man, a useless toy. It was... _pity_ , in the way she looked at him.

"What Sherlock?" She asked when he said nothing.

"I," he cleared his throat once more but a tear fell anyway. "I don't... _want_ to give her what she wants." He finally confessed.

Mrs. Hudson brought her hand up to his face and pulled him into her and he rested his head against her side while he held Janine's hand and this miracle of a woman soothed him.

"Lay with your wife, Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson told him. He sighed and nodded his head.

"I promise to look after her. But tonight, you must hold your wife, young man."

After Mrs. Hudson took her leave Sherlock changed his clothes and went about changing Janine's bandages.

Committing suicide was not a crime but it was a punishable offense if you were someone like Janine.

Janine was a daughter of the Maiden Citidel; their purpose was to continue the human race. If say a person like Molly or Mrs. Hudson decided to kill themselves Cardinal Law wouldn't really care because they were infertile females with someone waiting in the wings to take their place of servitude.

But Janine was considered valuable. Her womb, her organs, her blood, everything on her had a price tag and she was a very expensive.

And this was not the first time Janine had hurt herself. During the second year of their marriage when Janine had still not become pregnant she had gone into a rage in the middle of the night, waking the whole household. She threatened Sherlock that if he did not give her a baby she would kill herself.

Sherlock had managed to talk her down and from then on made sure she was kept under watchful surveillance. She hadn't had an outburst in months but Sherlock should have seen it coming. The pouting, the temper tantrums. The strange way she just seemed to stare at him, as if she were seeing through him. As if he weren't a person at all, just a meat suit she wanted to cut into.

Sherlock didn't know how to help his wife. She would have to pay a fine for trying to kill herself and return to therapy. He knew this would only depress her even more.

After changing her bandages he got into bed with her and stroked her hair behind her ears. Her eyes fluttered open. At first she smiled weakly at him then realization came back to her. Shame quickly followed and she pressed her hands to her face and began to cry. Sherlock pulled her to him and held her as she cried.

"Why didn't you call me?" He demanded, holding her as her body shook.

"Because you don't care." Janine whimpered through her tears. He sighed deeply and pulled the covers over them.

"I do, Janine, I promise I do." He was only half lying.

"Then why won't you give me a baby?" She asked weakly. He rubbed her hand gently, not knowing what to say.

"When you're better we'll try again. I promise." Janine looked up at him through her glassy eyes. A tear dripped off her eyelash and onto her cheek and it rolled onto Sherlock's palm.

"Stop promising me, Sherlock," Janine said sadly. "Stop promising and promising. Please, just go away." She turned away from him. "Send Mrs. Hudson in now, I'm sure you're dying to leave."

"No, Janine-"

"Please, go away. I'm nothing, I'm useless. I-I... please, let me be. What kind of a woman am I?"

Sherlock sat up and was ready to press the button that would call Mrs. Hudson in. His hand hovered over it before he laid back and wrapped an arm around Janine's waist, startling them both.

"No. I'm staying. I'm your husband. I'm staying." He said to her assuredly. She didn't question or fight him. He was after all the man of the house, the leader of their duo. She could not refuse anything he asked or commanded.

Sherlock held her all night. Sometimes he would wake up from a fog and feel her crying and he would soothe her back to sleep. And selfishly, he hated himself for thinking it, but all he wanted was Molly.

Here he was, holding his wife who only hours ago had tried to kill herself, and he was thinking of that precious little maid on the other side of the house.

 _My god, I really am the Devil,_ he thought bitterly.

In the morning, he showered and dressed without waking Janine. He knew she still needed rest. He asked Mrs. Hudson to stay with her and prepare new sheets and a light breakfast.

"Make sure you get her out of the house, the gardens perhaps. But don't leave the grounds, I don't want people gossiping about her." Sherlock had ordered his housekeeper.

Their marriage might not have been perfect and far from domestic bliss, but Sherlock was very protective of his wife.

When Sherlock entered the breakfast room Molly was preparing his meal. She didn't hear him enter. He glanced briefly at the cameras in the corners of the room. He cleared his throat, announcing his presence to her. Which of course, startled her.

Molly turned around quickly and after a moment of hesitation bowed to him. He didn't want her to bow. He was no one who should be bowed to.

"Good morning, Hooper." He said placidly and took his seat. He forced himself to eat something, but he barely had an appetite. Molly stood near him, as she always had done, waiting for him to be finished.

Sherlock's tablet chimed and he swiped to unlock it.

 _Message from Irene:_ _ **Another Watcher found dead this morning, same MO. No murder weapon. Possible witness. Shall I intervene?**_

Sherlock replied and ordered her to have the witnessed locked up and held with no interaction from anyone until he and Captain Watson arrived. Irene had her... _methods_ which usually ended with someone dead. Hence the dead man yesterday. Irene was still learning that humans were quite breakable even if at times they could be durable. But no one bounces back from getting their throat ripped out.

When it happened, Sherlock had tried to stop her but before he could it was too late and the man was dead and Irene's hand was covered in thick, wet blood. He had tried to scold Irene, he screamed at her and pointed a gun at her head. She had blinked at him, almost confused, almost... childlike. She had looked afraid, even.

" _Why did you do that!" Sherlock shouted at the damned android. She looked from the dead man on the floor to her blood covered hand. Irene shrugged._

" _He stopped being useful."_

It had terrified Sherlock to hear her speak in such a candid way. Would he one day seem useless to her?

"I'm finished, Hooper." Sherlock announced. Molly cleared his place and exited the room into the kitchen. He waited for her to return. When she did he gestured with his head to the other room. She didn't immediately follow him. When he was out of sight of the cameras and she remained he held up a crooked finger at her and motioned for her to yes, indeed, follow him.

Molly nervously licked her lips and soon found herself in an unused closet off the sitting room in a hallway that didn't get hardly any traffic. Sherlock didn't turn on a light, he didn't want to rouse suspicion from anyone who might be walking by that someone was inside.

Though the closet and this area of the house were rarely used, Sherlock was on edge. Keenly aware of everything happening around him.

Their eyes adjusted to the darkness. Her arms were at her sides as she gazed up at him, he reached out and cupped her face and he felt her breath hitch in her throat.

"Sir," she whispered in the darkness.

Sherlock sighed; ah, there it was. He liked it- no he reveled in it- when she called him "sir". It hardened him instantly, made his heart bang against his ribcage. Made him want to debauch her again.

Molly felt herself being pressed back against the wall of the closet and her breathing increased.

 _Here? Now?_ Sher thought quickly.

As if reading her mind, Sherlock nodded in the darkness. He could just make out her face, the sweet pale flesh that seemed to almost glow in the dark. He could see her so clearly. He didn't need light to know her scent, her laugh. He could be blind and no every trace of her skin.

"Molly." He whispered before pressing his lips hotly against hers. She whimpered but didn't struggle. She reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck.

 _Yes, there it is,_ he thought darkly. He had feared once he had Molly the first time he wouldn't want her again. But he was wrong. Thank god he had been wrong. But that was the rub, now he couldn't get enough of her.

Sherlock pressed her harder into the wall of the closet, thrusting a thigh between her legs and practically hoisting her off the ground. Her little blue dress falling up her thighs and her stockings leaving little to the imagination.

"God I want you." He whispered against her lips and then proceeded to unbutton her collar and attack her neck. Molly moaned quietly and had to stifle a cry when he suddenly lifted her up and wrapped her legs around his waist.

"Oh, please, sir, please." She moaned. She was afraid, she was wet, she was wanting... god, she was so wanting in his ability to conduct such illicit feelings from her.

Sherlock pushed her dress up as far as it would go and tore her panties so hard they ripped. She gasped and he placed a hand over her mouth; once more her eyes widened in fear but he shook his head and assured her she had nothing to fear.

"Shall I take away the pain?" He whispered deeply to her and after a moment of her eyes searching his she nodded slowly. He removed his hand from her mouth, leaving a finger against her lips to insure her silence.

Then, when he was sure she wouldn't cry out again, he slipped his hand between her legs while the other remained at her hip.

Molly bit her lip as she felt him gently rubbing. Her head rolled against the wooden wall of the closet, a clear sheen of sweat formed at her hairline and her skin was red.

Sherlock pressed his mouth to hers once more, lazily rolling his tongue over hers and pulling it into his mouth. She had still much to learn and he was determined to be her only teacher.

Molly's hands flattened on his chest and dug hard into the material of his shirt as he thrust his fingers in and out of her sopping cunt, his thumb playing with her clit. It seemed as if his hands and only his hands, were made to do these things to her. These terrible, sinful, disgusting things.

But Molly couldn't find it in herself to stop him. She wanted him to defile her, she wanted him to make her beg again and again.

 _Yes, shame me, shame me, shame me..._

Sherlock's thrusting grew more intense, more earnest and she pressed her face into the column of his neck and for some strange reason she could not understand, she _bit_ him.

Sherlock was obviously startled by her action but it wasn't necessarily painful, it had reminded him when he gently nipped at her neck days ago in his study.

 _She's learning,_ he thought lustfully.

Yes, she bit him but not hard enough to draw blood, but she applied just the right amount of pleasure for Sherlock to feel his cock flex and jerk, nearly coming in his trousers. Her felt her little tongue trace the bit, suck on it and kiss it gently.

When he felt her legs tighten around his waist and her toes curl and her mouth dropped open in a quiet "ahh" he knew she had reached her climax. He felt it seep onto his fingers and he lifted them to his mouth and she watched he licked them clean.

It was so... deplorable in its intensity. So outrageous and scandalous.

Utterly... _vulgar._

Sherlock gave her a minute to recover from her orgasm until he and his cock could bare it no longer, so he bared himself.

He scooted her a little more firmly against the wall and reached down before pausing. She gazed at him with a confused look on her face.

Sherlock then took her small hand in his and placed it around his cock. She was alarmed at first, though it hadn't been the first time she touched _that_ part of him.

"Take me into you." Sherlock said hotly into her ear as he licked and kissed her neck and earlobe.

"I... I don't know if I can, Sir." Molly whispered against his lips. He smiled and kissed her again. She cupped his face with her free hand and stroked him with her other. He moaned into her mouth and pressed his cock more firmly against her quim. She shuddered in anticipation.

"Yes, yes you can. Please, Molly." He said desperately. She licked her lips and took a deep breath. She held tight to his hips with her thighs and directed his manhood to her wet opening.

Sherlock never let his eyes leave her face, but her own pretty little orbs rolled back, her mouth parting and her head lolling to the side as she took him into her. She gave up a little and he took over from there, thrusting gently the rest of the way into her. She held tightly to his shoulders as he pressed the length of his body completely against her own.

Sherlock moaned hard in his chest at the feeling of her hot sheath swallowing him. He could smell their sex filling the small space. He pulled out a little and shoved himself back into her and she cried out and slapped a hand over her mouth, like she had done time and again before.

Sherlock longed for the day when Molly wouldn't have to stifle her moans of pleasure. When he could listen as he rudely made her scream because of his cock or his mouth or his fingers. He panted heavily, the room filling with the sounds of their sexes moving against one another, the small pace becoming humid with their fervor and sexual greediness.

" _Oh_ , fuck, Molly," Sherlock groaned through clenched teeth and he pressed his forehead against her own, their lips and mouths dragging across one another; not really kissing but touching and licking.

Molly's mouth finally fell open in a silent moan, she didn't know what noises to make anymore or what to say. It was all so overwhelming. Her body was on fire, there was little to no pain, just the constant meaty stabbing of his manhood filling her. Filling her to the brim when she had felt so utterly empty before. Never realizing something so terrible and violent could feel so astounding.

"Sir- sir... it's... I-" She whimpered weakly against his lips and Sherlock knew she was nearing closer to the edge of coming. He was fast approaching his own end.

"Come for me, Molly..." He said darkly and thrust harder and harder into her, once more beating the air out of her lungs. The force and brutality of his desire shocking, frightening and thrilling her. And the thrill was the most dangerous of all.

Captivated by the spellbinding motions of his thrusts, coupled with the overwhelming _need_ to satisfy not only himself but her as well sent him over the edge and he brought Molly with him.

Tumbling over the edge and into the dark abyss, where lustful obsidian hands grasped them both; binding them in their dark, mutual secret.

When it was over and Sherlock had come back to himself, he attended to Molly differently than he had before. He was tender, his normally cold mannerisms had been swept away for the moment. He was sure they would return to him eventually.

Molly was sweaty, panting and taken aback by his sweet caresses. He held her near and cradled the back of her head to his shoulder, running a soothing, caring hand up and down her back.

"It's alright, dear girl, it's alright." He said attentively.

Rationally, he knew none of what they had done was alright. It was illegal, it was insipid.

It was... _electrifying_.

Never had Sherlock ever felt so alive before. Never had he felt so close to being human than when he was in the utmost debased throws of passion with Molly.

Molly leaned back, daring to look at him. Her womanhood twitched and ached. She was warm and cold all at the same time. She was sore and yet had never felt more healthy in her entire life. The ways in which he made her feel... nearly indescribable.

"Am I not to tell again?" She whispered to him, almost sounding fearful. He nodded and brushed his thumbs over her cheeks, noting her tears.

Molly was instantly embarrassed.

 _Had I been crying? What must he think-_

Sherlock kissed her tenderly.

"I must go." He said solemnly. She nodded, understandingly. Yet it didn't deflate her disappointment.

 _Stay with me, Sir, stay with me forever..._

Sherlock and Molly fixed themselves up and made themselves presentable once more.

For some strange reason Sherlock found himself wanting to _give_ her something. But not just anything. Something from himself. Something personal, something of him she could carry with her privately.

A cufflink? An old family heirloom of some sort? A letter...

 _NO! Control..._ he thought.

Sherlock dispatched the idea. It was too dangerous. Someone could find it. Someone _would_ most certainly find it. And then everything would change.

 _Focus on the case. You could be next, remember?_

After bidding a mournful goodbye to Molly he began his commute to Station 4 where no doubt Captain John Watson would be waiting.

Then the full investigation could begin. He sent a message to Irene telling her to remain at the office in case they had need of her.

 _She needs a bit of alone time after yesterday,_ he thought.

Sherlock drove himself through the various sectors. Some ablaze, some shut down, some under repair, some affluent. All different sorts, separated by walls and barbed wire. Separated by blood and status.

 _What would it be like to break down such walls?_ He thought. Of course he didn't tell anyone of these thoughts. Such thoughts were treasonous.

The Cardinals and Elders knew of his intelligence. They did not discourage it, they did however, warn him of the dangers of such higher thinking.

It was a dangerous thing for a man to realize he did not need masters to live.

Sherlock reflected on the night before, on Janine. And then on his own terrible and callous behavior with Molly.

Oh, shame and guilt did wonders to a man's soul.

 _I should have been there when she woke,_ he thought sadly to himself.

But the case needed solving or he wouldn't be good to anyone, especially Janine. She would be well taken care of. Mrs. Hudson would see to that and Molly-

 _Christ, Molly... what have I done? Dragging her into this like a coward..._

Sherlock steeled himself to the thought of both women. They weren't important now. His base, carnal needs were meaningless. It was the case that needed his attention, it was the case that needed doing.

It was Captain John Watson who would help him solve it.

 _Yes, the war hero Captain, he'll steer me right,_ Sherlock thought, strangely, optimistic.


	7. CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SIX

 **AN: MENTIONS OF SELF ABUSE AND THOUGHTS OF SUICIDE.**

When Mr. Holmes finally arrived at Station 4, John had already been promptly early. He was once again seated in Mr. Holmes' office. He took in his surroundings once more, as he had the day before.

No pictures, well, that wasn't too out of the ordinary for a Watcher; from what John understood of them and had experienced they were a highly spartan lot.

Mr. Holmes did however have a copy of the periodic table on the left wall and a skull sitting on a single shelf to the right. A little unnerving, John wondered if the skull had belonged to an enemy.

The door opened and in the reflection of the window directly behind Mr. Holmes' desk he saw that it was indeed the man he had been waiting for.

John stood and reached out to shake the Watcher's hand.

"Mr. Holmes," John said politely. Mr. Holmes looked a little more disheveled that the last time they had spoke.

 _What could shake a man more than seeing a person get their throat ripped out?_ John thought curiously. But in the world they lived in, that could be a long list.

"Please, call me Sherlock. I don't particularly care for formalities." Sherlock explained and he took a seat behind his desk. John was halfway between sitting and standing when Sherlock jumped up again.

"Who opened the curtains?" Sherlock demanded suddenly, gesturing to the window with his hand.

John was still and speechless for a moment. The man was quite changeable.

"Oh- I, they were open when I got here." John said and it was true. And he hadn't noticed it before. Sherlock immediately closed the curtains.

"Worried someone is watching?" John said, not sure if he should be worried or not.

"Someone is _always_ watching," Sherlock said. "I just try to limit the surveillance as much as possible."

"Oh. Right. Will the Irene be joining us today?" John asked, hoping to god she wasn't.

Sherlock shook his head.

"No. She needs some alone time after yesterday. I doubt she'll even understand why I'm isolating her." Sherlock said hurriedly. He glanced at his watch.

"Right. We have another trip to the morgue to make." He said heading for the door, John following him quickly.

"Another Watcher murdered?"

Sherlock explained what Irene had sent him. The file was on the tablet Sherlock carried and he handed it over to John.

The soldier-spy-doctor went through it, noting the details, anything about this one that might stand out. And he spotted it.

"You noticed it then?" Sherlock said as the elevator doors opened and they stepped out into a bright hallway leading to the mortuary.

"Yes," John said, "Whoever is doing this is working their way up the foodchain."

"Precisely." Sherlock agreed. "Started with the first, Thomas Ryder. A low ranking lieutenant, Station 1."

"He received and interpreted resistance code." John added. Sherlock nodded.

"Next victim," Sherlock began. "Alex Woodbridge, security guard and analyst for Station 2. Then the third victim, Vincent Harrison."

"Says here he was an undercover agent for WAR?" John inquired. Sherlock smirked.

"It stands for Watchers Against Resistance. Nice little ring to it, don't you think?"

John chuckled.

"A bit obvious."

Sherlock paused outside the mortuary swinging doors, frowning.

"Obvious?"

"Well, I mean- oh. You... you came up with it-"

"Yes."

There was an awkward silence that followed. As they stood there John noticed something that suddenly made things both less awkward and strangely... funny?

On the right side of Sherlock Holmes' neck was a... lovebite? It looked like Holmes either had no idea it was there or tried terribly to cover it up.

"Well, shall we go say hi?" Sherlock said, pushing open the doors and John following him.

"Fourth victim: Seamus Franklin," Sherlock said pointing the fourth victim on the cold slab. It was all very indelicate. "Senior Watcher, patrol duty sectors 1-5 were his beat. Not very well liked."

John took note of the man's knuckles; they were scared and bruised. He grimaced, he knew those kinds of hands. A part of him wasn't sad this one was dead.

"And our most recent victim to join the party," Sherlock said and he tore away a sheet from the last and most recent cadaver. "Colin Murphy, another Senior Watcher slated to take my job one day- I hated him."

"Did you kill him?" John joked. Sherlock shrugged.

"Thought about it. But no, I did not kill him." Sherlock said nonchalantly. John wasn't sure if he should feel comforted or on edge by the Watcher's words.

"You don't trust me." Sherlock said pointedly, his hands were in his pockets his back straight. They were at least ten feet apart with dead bodies lined between them.

"What's the saying? Never trust a Watcher?" John said and Sherlock smirked and nodded.

"Yes well, you're not a Watcher, John. I have every reason _to_ trust you. And since killing you would not further my advancement in any way, you can trust me."

"Oh, well, yes that's very comforting." John said sarcastically. Sherlock chuckled.

"Oh come now, Captain, make some deductions. Why would the killer work their way up the foodchain?" Sherlock asked, he placed both hands together in a prayer motion, thinking and observing the corpses as if they could come back to life and tell him who killed them.

John sighed and took a closer look at them.

"Stop that." Sherlock quipped. John looked around and shrugged.

"What did I do?"

"Don't look, _observe_." Sherlock suggested, rather annoyingly actually. John groaned and tried to change whatever it was he had done wrong. Apparently, Sherlock appreciated it, because he didn't interrupt this time.

"There must be something that connects them," John said. "I mean besides the obvious."

"Yes, they're all Watchers, how very astute." Sherlock muttered. John shook his head.

"No."

"No?" Sherlock squinted his brow at him and for a moment John wanted to punch him.

"Yes. They're all married."

Sherlock looked like his brain had just been fried. John took a step closer.

"Sherlock?" John asked but no answer. The man wasn't blinking, he didn't appear to be breathing. Just... standing there.

Then-

"OF COURSE!" The bellow echoed through the mortuary and thank god everyone in the room was dead. Well, most everyone.

"What?" John asked but Sherlock was already on his way out and the shorter man quickly followed.

"Don't you see? All married Watchers. If they were single it would make more sense but this is clever, clever, clever!" Sherlock said excitedly. They ended up back in the elevator.

"What does them being married have to do with anything? Honestly I was picking something to annoy you."

Sherlock slapped John on the shoulder.

"Oh I figured that out already. No, John, a married Watcher is ten times less likely to be murdered because it's been placed at his feet to produce more children, to further the human race. He's less likely to take risks, more likely to tip-toe around things. Whereas an unmarried Watcher, he takes risks, he revels in the thrill of the chase. There's something in this, _something_ I can feel it."

John tried to keep up with Sherlock but the man spoke so quickly it was hard to. He had never met anyone like Sherlock Holmes before. So random, so quick. How the man spoke so quickly and precisely without so much as stumbling over one word was lost on John.

"Where are we going?" John asked him as they left the building.

"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock asked, a look of surprise on his face. John shook his head, still slightly annoyed.

"The widows, John! It's always the damn widows."

John got inside the sleek black car. It was far more comfortable than he was expecting it be.

"Wait you think the widows are the killers?"

Sherlock sighed.

"As ever John you see but do not observe."

"Okay, hang on, we've known each other an hour."

"The widows John, they always know something." Sherlock said starting the car and pulling out of the parking lot. John laughed at the man beside him.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"It's not just, widows mate, it's _women_."

X

Janine was wrapped in a wool shawl that Mrs. Hudson kept from falling off her shoulders. She would have preferred it be pinned closed, but sharp objects were out of the question. That didn't stop her from seeing every object around as a weapon; not to kill others, only herself.

 _I could ram my head into that pillar, make a good mess of things,_ Janine thought blandly.

"Here you go dearie, a nice cuppa for you." Mrs. Hudson said handing Janine the cup, the camomile tea steamed hot but made Janine sick to her stomach. The dark haired woman took it but let it rest in her lap. The afternoon was warm but there was still a chill in the air. She smelled the faintest hints of smoke in the distance.

 _Somewhere someone is burning,_ she though, in a queer amused sort of way.

Janine glanced down at her wrists. The bandages were fresh, but there tiny spots of blood that had begun to seep through, staining the whiteness.

 _Why couldn't they just let me do it? I'm no good. I'll never be any good to anyone. I'm not a woman, not a real woman..._

"Did I ever tell you the story of how Mr. Holmes and I met?" Mrs. Hudson said. Janine didn't respond. "Well it was about fifteen years ago..." the old woman went on jabbering but Janine had stopped listening. She only stared. She glanced up at the flat room of the house.

Holmes Manor on Baker Street. She had been excited on the day of her ceremony. Overjoyed, over the moon, ecstatic, head over heels! A good husband, a noble family, a promising future.

The Elders had promised her she would be pregnant within a month. Then six months went by, then two years and as more time went on the more Janine felt her internal clock beginning to wither.

Her womb felt like a rotting piece of flesh she was forced to carry around with her. All of the therapy in the world didn't help. The doctor would only sit there, reassuring her, giving her false hope.

For once Janine wished someone would tell her the truth. At least if she knew why she wasn't getting pregnant she could make preparations. Sherlock could divorce her and she could go and live as a Comforting Heart with the Sisters of Mercy. She could do her part for the uneducated and the poor.

But no, instead she wasted away; day in and day out.

"My Lady, I'm going to have a little rest. Molly will keep you company." Mrs. Hudson said, somewhere close and yet far away. Janine didn't reply.

 _Who was Molly?_ Janine thought.

It was only when she glanced up did she recognize the small maid who she had been in charge of for five years. Sherlock liked her father apparently or knew her father or... something with the father. It didn't matter to Janine.

The maid named Molly took Mrs. Hudson's seat. To Janine's surprise the maid didn't try to make silly conversation, didn't try to tell her some stupid story. She was more comforting in her silence than Mrs. Hudson was in her verbal communication.

It was then that Janine decided to speak,

"Pleasant day." She remarked. Molly nodded but didn't answer. Perhaps she wasn't sure if she could.

"Do you have any hobbies?" Janine asked looking to Molly. The girl shrugged. "Can you speak?" It was a genuine question, some maids couldn't.

"Oh- oh, yes, My Lady. It's just... well we've never really spoken much." Molly said, keeping her head low trying to appear invisible. Janine knew the feeling; except everyone wanted to look at her, appraise her. Find out what she was worth.

"Yes, well, we're talking now. Where did you grow up, which sector?" Janine asked, turning her body more towards Molly. She dumped the tea out onto the lawn.

"Sector Six." The girl replied, meekly but nicely.

"We would've almost been neighbors. I was Sector Eight." Janine said.

"Very grand, My Lady." Molly said kindly. Janine smiled sadly and shook her head.

"No, not grand. To outsiders yes, but looking back... well, we're not allowed to speak ill of our upbringing, are we?" Janine sighed. "Molly, can I ask you a personal question?"

Molly seemed to turn pale but nodded all the same.

"Do you ever... do you ever feel like you're not real?" Janine asked, she glanced into the bottom of the now empty tea cup, little bits of tea leaf milled about. The maid seemed quite baffled by the question. "Do you ever think that maybe you're not really, real?"

Molly shrugged and seemed at a loss for words.

"Oh, never mind," Janine huffed. The girl bowed her head once more, seemingly cowed by Janine. "I'm going to tell you something Molly and I don't want you to tell anyone. Not Mrs. Hudson or the butler or the staff and most importantly _not_ Mr. Holmes," Janine said quite sternly. "I'm telling you because I need to tell someone. No offense, but someone who doesn't matter much."

Molly felt her heart baging away inside her breast and her mind raced. She felt like her limbs were on fire, her palms sweaty.

 _Does she know? I never told anyone! Oh no, he'll be shot-_

"I want to die, Molly," Janine said simply. "Time is meaningless, _I'm_ meaningless. I just wanted to tell someone. But you won't tell a soul, will you Molly?"

Molly gaped at the other woman, she was shaking all over and yet Janine seemed as still as a tree.

"But... but you can't want to do such a thing. Mr. Holmes he would- he would be most unhappy." Molly said, forcing the words out.

Molly didn't know what else to say but she had to say something. She had never heard of such thing! Molly was accustomed to death, she had grown up around it. Her father had been a Watcher, he had explained to her from an early age what death was.

And Molly's father had also told her that if one is thinking of taking their life, they need help and you mustn't let them ever feel alone.

Breaking many rules and boundaries, Molly risked lifting her hand and placing it on top of Janine's. It either broke the woman or relieved her, Molly couldn't quite tell, but her Lady began weeping. Her mask of nothingness fell away and her true face was shown.

"Please don't say such things, My Lady. You're so kind and good and... and you would be missed terribly." Molly said sweetly.

"By whom?" Janine said sadly.

"By me and I mean nothing." Molly replied.

They sat there like that for a while, until Mrs. Hudson had had her rest. Molly returned to her work inside the great house feeling worse than she had all week.

Molly felt like a traitor. How could she befriend her Lady when she was doing such illicit things with Mr. Holmes? She felt like she was a lie come to life. She felt like a horrible contradiction.

When she was allowed her break she returned to her little room and laid down on her bed weeping and wishing Mr. Holmes was near and hating him all at once. Molly had heard of heartbreak, she had also felt it when her father died, and she had heard of love.

Not the love she had felt for her father, but love between two people who weren't related. The phrase was "true love". No one seemed to be able to give her a direct answer as to what it really meant. Not even her father had been able to.

" _When you love someone Molly you'll know, but you won't need to worry about that."_ He had said to her.

Probably because she had been declared infertile from a young age. When a young girl first gets their menstrual cycle they're taken in and seen by a doctor.

In a strange way her father had been pleased she couldn't bare children. It meant she would stay at home and not be taken away to the Citadel. Her father gave her many books to read, some with a love story, but it was nothing she could really understand. It always seemed to so sad and confusing to her.

Molly had nothing to compare it to. And none of the books had ever described what she felt for Mr. Holmes.

And now, with everything happening with Mr. Holmes, she had a terrible feeling this was love.

Were the things he did to her a way of showing her that he loved her? And if that were true, he must love his wife as well. Molly had heard them together in their marital bed.

Were you allowed to love two people?

If love was such a happy thing why did she hurt?

 _Is it supposed to hurt?_

And the most frightening question of all, did he love her? She could ask him, next time when they were alone. But she felt she was betraying her Lady. And the more time she spent with Mr. Holmes the more dangerous it got.

They were playing with fire, they both knew it too well.

But the idea of stopping broke Molly even more.


	8. CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER SEVEN

The widows of Ryder and Woodbridge hadn't interested Sherlock Holmes much; a few things stood out that he found curious and more connected them than their husbands being Watchers.

Both women belonged to the same bookclub, both women were the same age and height. Both women had given birth to one child and a stillborn.

This was enough to send John reeling but for some reason Sherlock wasn't all that impressed with it.

Sherlock had explained it wasn't uncommon for the wives of Watchers to have a hard time conceiving (or having stillborns) but didn't offer up any sources or proof, which during the short time they had known each other, was odd.

 _What is his hunch anyway?_ John Watson thought as they left the second widow's home.

Neither woman had shed many tears, both had been wearing red. Coincidence or just subconscious cheer that their husbands were now dead?

Being married to a Watcher couldn't be easy, John decided. He glanced at Sherlock's own hand, a silver wedding band adorned it.

Then the Captain thought back to what Sherlock had said, so hurriedly and passionately, back in the morgue,

" _..._ _a married Watcher is ten times less likely to be murdered because it's been placed at his feet to produce more children, to further the human race. He's less likely to take risks, more likely to tip-toe around things. Whereas an unmarried Watcher, he takes risks, he revels in the thrill of the chase..."_

John couldn't help but think that Sherlock Holmes was a contradiction. Here the man was, himself a married Watcher, out taking risks and putting himself in the line of fire. The Captain wondered why Sherlock didn't pass the case on to someone else, someone more expendable.

It was odd for a man like Sherlock Holmes, at his sort of position of power, to be doing so much fieldwork. John hadn't had many encounters since his childhood with Watchers, but he knew this: wherever the higher ups could, they always sent someone more expendable into battle. Isn't that why they had canon fodder?

"You've got questions." Sherlock said directly as he drove to the next widow's home.

John cleared his throat and sat up more rightly in his seat.

"Yeah, how the hell did you know about my ear?" John asked, it wasn't really at the top of his growing long list of questions for Sherlock Holmes but it had been nagging at him.

Sherlock smirked and sighed.

"I told you, you told me. Shot in the dark, mostly." Sherlock explained, candidly.

It didn't satisfy John though. He had made real life shots in the dark. For Sherlock that must have been quite a fucking shot.

"It can't be that simple. What? Do you have those implants they've been road testing or what?" He asked.

Sherlock groaned and shook his head.

"No implants. Just born with it."

"Well it's... outstanding." John said, almost not believing his own words.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment before speaking again,

"You... you really think so?" The Watcher asked. John nodded.

"Annoying as hell but outstanding."

"That's not what people normally say."

"I'm sure it's not." John said with a chuckle. "Can all Watchers do that? Is it something you're taught?"

Sherlock shook his head once more.

"No. Like I said, I was born with it. My brother and I."

"You've got a brother?"

Sherlock nearly corrected himself. Why had he done that? Given out such personal information? That wasn't like him. He stopped himself from stuttering out some excuse that he had made a mistake, that he had no brother.

But, the cat was out of the bag now. He had revealed personal data about himself. No going back now.

"Yes, an older brother." Sherlock said simply.

"He's like you, a Watcher?"

"No. He's far more frightening than that."

That seemed to end the conversation. John didn't press for more details. He didn't ask for dirty secrets about their childhood, he didn't ask about his parents. And Sherlock respected and appreciated him for not digging. Maybe it was because John was a spy that he respected people's privacy in a counter intuitive way. Perhaps he just didn't care.

Either way, John not tip toeing around and needling for information seemed to put Sherlock at ease.

"Have you got any family?" Sherlock asked before he could stop himself.

"You've read my file. You know the answer to that." John replied.

Sherlock felt like an ass. He had read John's file, more than once. He had memorized it. He didn't bring it up again the whole way to Vincent Harrison's widow.

The house was like the other houses that Watchers owned. Except Sherlock's of course; his home with an heirloom, part of a larger more regal dynasty. A Watcher without a House name was a CW- Commonwealth Watcher. Sherlock was a DW: Dynasty Watcher.

Standard issue home for a Watcher was a two level apartment, room enough for a small family. Every Watcher home looked the same down to the carpet and furniture.

Mrs. Harrison looked dreadfully pale, wore red and was a little less of that eerie, cheerful-placidness that Mrs. Ryder and Mrs. Woodbridge had been.

"When was the last time you had seen your husband, Mrs. Harrison?" John asked delicately. He was sitting across from Mrs. Harrison, Sherlock stood, observing, taking every detail in that they had already seen twice before.

"He was getting ready for another all-nighter. I don't- _didn't-_ know much about what he did. Except it was dangerous. I feel so guilty, like I should have talked him into staying in." Mrs. Harrison said.

"Mrs. Harrison this may be indelicate," Sherlock cut in. "But have you ever had a stillborn?"

John inwardly groaned and outwardly cringed. The other two women had just mentioned it in passing like they were talking about the weather, but Sherlock was now looking for it.

John was growing more comfortable with the bluntness of Watchers (or maybe that was just Sherlock) and more uncomfortable by how easy they and everyone associated with them seemed to be with talking about such private matters.

Mrs. Harrison didn't seem to think it was all that inappropriate to ask.

 _These people are a strange lot,_ he thought grimly.

"I have. When we were first trying to conceive. Is that relevant?" She asked and John wanted to shake his head but Sherlock nodded.

"I'm afraid so. I notice you're wearing red." Sherlock commented.

Mrs. Harrison looked flabbergasted.

"Of course, Sir. I'm in mourning!" She said intensely.

"Of course. Apologies. Mrs. Harrison, are you aware that you belong to the same bookclub as the other two women whose husbands have been murdered?" Sherlock seemed to be stabbing his questions not asking them. As if each word were an inch of the knife and he was driving it home with each letter.

"Vivian and Beth? Of course. I believe your own wife joins us from time to time, Mr. Holmes." Mrs. Harrison said, almost... threateningly. Sherlock smirked, making eye contact and maintaining it as he approached.

John felt very tense all of the sudden, as if his inner animal was telling him to duck.

"Mrs. Harrison, did you kill your husband?" Sherlock asked simply.

Mrs. Harrison laughed lightly and shook her head.

"Mr. Holmes, what kind of wife would I be if I murdered my husband?" She asked him innocently, shrugging her shoulders.

Even John had felt the shift in her attitude, the way her body language changed from cowering housewife... to pacing tiger, ready to pounce.

"That's all for today. We'll be in touch." Sherlock said, bounding out of the apartment, John behind him.

When they got to the car John's hands were shaking.

"Did you see that?" Sherlock said, starting the car. He pressed a few buttons on the car computer screen.

"Yeah, great. What?" John asked, slightly dazed.

" _They_ didn't kill their husbands but one of them did." Sherlock said and suddenly Irene's mannequin face appeared on the screen, startling John. The android moved her lips but she might as well be dead she was so expressionless.

"Sir." Irene said tonelessly.

"Irene, I want you to prep the witness for questioning. I'll be there shortly." Sherlock ordered. Irene nodded and was about to log off when Sherlock stopped her. "Irene," he said sternly. "Make sure he's alive when I get there."

Irene nodded, as if there were a reason the witness should be dead when he gets there. But then a queer look of realization swept across the android's face. It was a strange thing to witness, a robot realizing a mistake they had made in the past could disrupt their future.

"Understood, Sir." Irene said and she cut off communication.

"So you don't think it was the wives? She seemed more than a little guilty. Eerie as hell actually." John said, referring to Mrs. Harrison.

"Oh they're guilty. I don't even need to talk to Mrs. Franklin." Sherlock said, he still had that shit eating grin on his face. That "I know something you don't know" face that made John want to punch him. And yet, the Captain couldn't help it. He needed to know, he was excited.

"What do you mean? If they didn't kill their husbands how are they guilty?" John asked.

Sherlock groaned.

"As ever John you-"

"-Yeah, yeah, I see but not do observe well tell me smart-ass what am I not observing?"

"Tsk, tsk, tsk... quite snappy." Sherlock said almost childishly. "I was educating you back there, John. It's normal for widowed wives of Watchers to wear red. It's normal for them to act cold, it's arranged marriages we're talking about not that sentimental love for commoners."

"That's very ignorant of you." John commented.

"I'm sorry, shall I just ignore all my formal training and upbringing to be politically correct for you?"

"You might try."

"I can't do that. It just... comes out. The fact remains true love isn't found among my kind, John. It's something we accepted a long time ago and if you don't mind, you don't know anything about it so do not presume that you do."

John felt that stab, it hurt. Sherlock was right, in an abnormal way he was right. John could apply for a companion but he could say no if they didn't hit it off and try again.

Sherlock was different; man or a wife couldn't say no. And for a brief moment he got a another peak into what it was like to be Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock had been assigned a wife, judging by his tone and attitude and his willingness to throw himself into danger he wasn't concerned for his safety; therefore he lived as if he had no wife.

"What else?" John asked after a moment of silence.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock replied.

"What else about the case? Why are the wives guilty?"

"Mrs. Harrison, her attitude, everything about her immediately changed after I mentioned the other women. Mrs. Ryder and Mrs. Woodbridge. A primal instinct came out of her, _protection_. She became defensive, she even brought up my own wife. But not in the same protective way. She was threatening me." Sherlock said decidedly.

"I definitely got that too. Why would they want to kill their husbands? Doesn't that, I dunno, go against their-"

"Conditioning?" Sherlock suggested. John was slightly surprised.

"Your word not mine." John said.

"It's a fact, John. We live in a world where we're conditioned from the moment we're born. Anyone goes against that and you end up in a factory, prison or shot."

"Can they hear us in here? Could you be arrested for talking about it?"

"Of course they're listening and of course I won't be. If I got on the Network and started blabbing then yeah, I'd be arrested."

"Don't do that anytime soon." John warned.

They arrived back at Station 4 a little after one o'clock. Irene was waiting outside the interrogation room. Sherlock and John were both relieved to see the witness was still alive.

"Witness's name is Gregory Lestrade, 46, no prior arrests." Irene explained handing Sherlock the tablet and barely noticing John.

The Captain wasn't offended, he'd rather be unnoticed by the android.

"Occupation?" Sherlock asked.

"Neutral." Irene answered and both the Watcher and the Captain looked at her in surprise and then at each other.

"Neutral?" John questioned, Sherlock handed him the tablet without thinking.

"He's been living in Sectors 10-12 for two years since they were taken by the resistance. But he also barters and sells good to Sectors 1-9. His papers all checked out." Irene continued.

"We have to be very careful about this, John." Sherlock warned, staring at the witness through the two way glass.

"Of course." John agreed.

"We can't do anything that would risk the cease fire."

When the two men had come to an agreement on who would ask what they entered the interrogation room. Even Sherlock seemed to be on his best behavior.

Strange that John was already thinking of Sherlock is terms of good or bad behavior. He observed better than Sherlock gave him credit for.

"Mr. Lestrade, for obvious reasons are you quite sure you don't require legal representation?" Sherlock asked politely. Mr. Lestrade shook his head, he didn't seem bothered by it at all.

"Oh, no, I'm sure. Might I have some water?" He asked.

John was instantly taken back to his childhood; and in a twisted way when Sherlock nodded and agreed to accommodate the man his fists clenched.

 _But when I was starving and dying of thirst a Watcher beat me half deaf,_ he thought bitterly.

Mr. Lestrade was a tall, well built man with gray hair and a trusting face. John noticed the wedding band, but it was on the wrong hand which he found quite odd.

 _Maybe it's not a wedding band,_ John thought, reminding himself to mention it to Sherlock but quickly realizing that would be a waste of time. He was sure it was one of the first things Sherlock noticed.

"Now, Mr. Lestrade," Sherlock began, hands folded neatly, fingertips resting on his chin. "Irene tells me you witnessed a murder of a Watcher last night," Mr. Lestrade nodded. "Care to elaborate a little more?"

Mr. Lestrade took a sip of water. He seemed calm, like he had been here before.

"Well, I was just getting ready to head back to my sector for the evening. I didn't want to break my curfew," Mr. Lestrade explained. "The Watcher- um... I'm sorry I don't know his name,"

John was ready to divulge the information when Sherlock cut in,

"His name is not important. Please continue." He said coldly. Mr. Lestrade hesitated then went on.

"Well, he called out to me and I recognized his car and his uniform and he asked for my ID and papers. I told him I had to go to my car when I felt something hit me on the back of the head and I went down for a minute, maybe..."

Sherlock immediately flipped to the page on the tablet as the man spoke to make sure he had been seen by a doctor. He had, mild concussion but it was relieved with the proper medication and treatment-

"When I came to I was bound but I could still see. He- the Watcher- was on his knees and someone with a mask on was behind him with a gun and... well, now we're here."

Sherlock sized Mr. Lestrade up in less than a minute-

 _Divorced, he hasn't let go but there's resentment mixed with sentiment. Law enforcer at one point so he's used to this, father of two, names tattooed on in the inside of each wrist, old schooler, he's telling the_ **truth** _._

Sherlock's brain came to a halt. The man wasn't lying and if he was he was a damn good one. But this man was simple, lower education, was enforcer long before the Watcher Stations took command and changed everything.

"Mr. Lestrade, can you tell us anything about the person or persons who attacked you and murdered the Watcher?" John asked. The silence had been a long one while Sherlock did whatever it was he did.

The older man shrugged and gestured to his head.

"I went down pretty hard. I know they were wearing a mask. Something... something black maybe? Look I'm really sorry I couldn't be more helpful." Mr. Lestrade said sympathetically and John believed him but more importantly Sherlock seemed to as well.

"Thank you Mr. Lestrade we'll be in touch. You're free to go." Sherlock said quickly, standing and ignoring the gesture of shaking hands with him.

John cleared his throat and apologized for Sherlock's behavior. Mr. Lestrade only shrugged and smiled kindly.

"It's alright, I'm used to them. You're not one though." Mr. Lestrade said, looking John up and down.

"Ah, no. You could call me a consultant." John said.

"Yeah? Want some advice?"

"Sure."

"Don't be."

John lingered a moment longer on Mr. Lestrade's words as the man was lead out, free to return to his sectors.

When John exited the interrogation room Sherlock and Irene stood silently at the end of the hall, waiting for him.

"What do you make of him?" John asked them both. Irene only stared, no sign of any thought going on inside her tincan brain. However, John could already tell when Sherlock was thinking.

Pondering and replaying every moment that had taken place inside that room.

"I find no reason not to believe him." Sherlock said, he sounded disappointed.

"Well I'm sure-"

"GUILTY!" They all turned in the direction of where Mr. Lestrade had been taken, and the man in question was running towards them. Irene took a defensive position in front of the Watcher and the soldier.

"Relax, Irene." Sherlock ordered her and she did without question. "What are you saying, Mr. Lestrade? Context, if you will."

Mr. Lestrade was out of breath when he reached.

"They said the word 'guilty' before they fired. I remembered, it just clicked. Does that help?"

Sherlock's mind tore into a gallop once more. Guilt? Guilty?

 _Guilty... having committed an offense, crime, violation, or wrong, especially against moral or penal law. Textbook definition. That word... that word... the widows, they're guilty. Who said it? "_ **I feel so guilty, like I should have talked him into staying in...** **I. Feel. So. Guilty... guilty...** _ **guilty**_..."

"Oh!" Sherlock exclaimed loudly. No one moved, the corridor entirely motionless.

"What?" Mr. Lestrade gaped, puzzled. John sighed.

"Don't worry, he does that."

"The widows!" Sherlock exclaimed again.

"Yes, Sherlock, we know-"

"No. It wasn't _them_. It was _her_. Irene, security footage of the nights the men died, anything you can get me you'll know when you see it."

Irene disappeared into the flurry of Watchers going by, getting lost in the sea of faces as she departed to do the task presented to her.

"Mr. Lestrade, you have been invaluable. But we must dash. Ta-ta!" Sherlock said cheerfully and he hurried away.

"Right. I better follow. Thank you for whatever that was." John said kindly, shaking the man's hand.

"Anytime." Mr. Lestrade said and the two men went their separate ways.

John found Sherlock just before the Watcher entered an elevator.

"So, what happened?" John asked.

"The widows John, the widows. I knew I sensed something about her." Sherlock replied, the last part of his sentence nearly entirely to himself, sometimes his words turned into mumbles only he could understand.

"I know you keep saying that."

"No, John, don't you see? We never would have suspected them in the first place. It goes against every moral code for the wife of a Watcher to murder her husband, to even contemplate it would be an act of treason. That's how they're conditioned."

"Nice world you live in."

"Am I supposed to take that as sarcasm?" Sherlock quipped. "Do you want wives to daydream about murdering their husbands?"

"Not what I meant but please go on."

"You do realize you have own your conditioning against you? You're here to question me and suspect me of something. You can't help it, can you?"

John sighed and nodded.

"You're right I can't."

"Then please do not expect me to be anything other than my own conditioning."

Little did John know that Sherlock had been questioning his own mind and programming for months and further more John had no idea Sherlock had even committed his own act of treason by taking another woman, without permission and worse of all, in secret.

Every word Sherlock spoke he felt like a hypocrite and yet he could hardly fight it either. He was at constant war within himself. He wanted and refused and couldn't give Janine what she needed. He couldn't keep up his affair with Molly forever. But he refused to give his girl up.

 _Can't think of her now, there's a case,_ Sherlock thought hastily. Picturing Molly now undone would ultimately undo him. He needed to be cold and cruel and merciless in his hunt. He was on the scent, growing closer and closer to his prey.

Mrs. Harrison was the ring leader, he was sure of it. Somehow she had gotten these women to conspire with her to murder their husbands. Irene would find something that they had missed. Somewhere along the way they had been clumsy. And at some point in time they had decided their husbands _needed_ to die.

When Irene finally brought the two men the smoking gun Sherlock couldn't help but be thrilled.

"Gotcha." He had said proudly.

Deep down, John could only feel that there was something very wrong with what was about to happen.

Mrs. Harrison, Mrs. Ryder, Mrs. Woodbridge and Mrs. Franklin were all brought in and kept in separate rooms. Sherlock made sure they all saw each other when they came in.

"Well, who do you think will crack first?" John asked him.

The Watcher only smiled in an unholy sort of way; as if he derived pleasure from what he was about to do.

"Just one. The mother lion will do anything to protect her cubs, John." Sherlock said before he entered the interrogation room where Mrs. Harrison was being held. Like an animal in a cage.

 _This isn't right,_ John couldn't help but think.

Sherlock sat across from Mrs. Harrison; her chair had been replaced with one that automatically induced stress, her requests for water were ignored, her request to speak to her representative was denied. And yet the woman acted as if she were at the damn zoo.

Irene stood behind Sherlock at the door, by his request.

"Has there been a break in my husband's murder?" She asked him and Sherlock nodded.

"Quite. Blew the whole thing open." He assured her. Mrs. Harrison nodded slowly, glancing at Irene then back at Sherlock.

"Well, if anyone could solve it, it would be the great Sherlock Holmes." Mrs. Harrison said, her tone and body language giving her away. Disdain, Sherlock was quite familiar with it.

"Why do you say that?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"You've quite the reputation. My husband spoke quite... _fondly_ of you."

"I find that hard to believe."

"Why?"

"Why not?"

Mrs. Harrison smiled, queerly.

"Mind if I smoke?" She said reaching into her purse.

"You can't." Sherlock said quickly.

"Why not?" Mrs. Harrison had already taken out a cigarette, prepared to light it.

"You're-"

"What?"

" _You're_ not allowed.

Mrs. Harrison lit it anyway.

"Because I'm a woman?" She said exhaling through her mouth and nose, "meant for breeding and popping out the little brats I didn't ask for?"

Sherlock knew the confession was coming. He placed the tablet on the table and pressed play. Security footage of Mrs. Harrison at all five murders. She had pulled the trigger five times without regret or remorse. She didn't shed a tear when she watched it.

In fact she seemed to enjoy it.

"Well, you've got me, Mr. Holmes." Mrs. Harrison said with a shrug.

"I want to know why." Sherlock said.

A tear formed in the corner of Mrs. Harrison's eyes and a choked laughed came out of her mouth followed by plumes of grey smoke.

"Why?" She repeated. "Why don't you ask your _wife_." She said through clenched teeth, the tear finally falling and landing on the tablet.

The words cut through Sherlock like the blade Janine had used to try and kill herself.

Mrs. Harrison wasn't done, she took another hard, intense pull from her cigarette, blowing the smoke in Sherlock's face making him more irritated and craving one at the same time.

"Look at you, sitting there all high and mighty, when we're the ones at home waiting for you. Waiting for to slip into our beds like the villainous snakes you are to lay your filthy seed inside of us!" Irene took a small step forward but Sherlock held out his hand to stop her.

"Look at her, look at _It_ ," Mrs. Harrison said turning her eyes to Irene. "Finally, man invented a woman who wouldn't talk back. All she needs is a fucking womb and you'll be set for life!" She laughed strangely. "Is she warm when you fuck her too, Mr. Holmes? I'm sure she doesn't fight. No, men don't like hearing the word 'no'. Only 'yes, sir, please sir, please be gentle, sir'. Forced to deliver your stillborns, forced to raise your bastards, forced to watch them be taken away and turned into men like _you_."

Mrs. Harrison flicked her cigarette at Sherlock but he batted it away. He needed to hear this though. He could have stopped her at any time but he didn't. This was it, this was his punishment.

Mrs. Harrison wanted to castrate him in front of everyone and deep down Sherlock knew he deserved it; these were all the things Janine should say to him. All the things he feared Molly would think of him one day.

Sherlock didn't feel like a man anymore; he felt like a skin-suit, masquerading around as a man with a purpose.

"Ask your wife, Mr. Holmes, why I killed those men and when you have an answer please let me know." Mrs. Harrison said coldly before reaching into her purse for another cigarette. "If I am to die and die I shall, it will be doing what I love. Smoking and telling you lot to fuck off."

Sherlock exited the room, Irene behind him. John was there waiting, his expression as readable as a book.

"You heard?" Sherlock asked calmly, shielding his emotions. John only nodded.

"Case solved, in shorter time than I thought." Sherlock went on as if nothing happened.

"What now?" John asked, but he wanted to say "you deserved that" and he also wanted to ask "are you okay"?

"Oh, Irene will take care of the rest." Sherlock said waving a hand.

"No, no, Sherlock I mean... do I get my request granted?"

Sherlock paused and sighed.

"Yes. Yes I suppose you do." He said kindly, though at the moment all he wanted was something to lash out to. But he was keeping it in.

"Just like that?" John questioned and Sherlock nodded.

"Unless of course you'd like to continue." The other man suggested.

"I'll have to think on that."

"Of course. Let me know by the end of the week?"

"Sure. Thank you for the... experience, it was very enlightening."

The two men said their goodbyes and Sherlock got into a car to drive home.

When he arrived at Baker Street to Holmes Manor he found it hard to go inside. On the one hand, Molly was there perhaps waiting for him to come to her. And on the other, the wife he never wanted, waited up for him as she always did. The wife who tried to end her life...

" _Ask your wife..."_ Mrs. Harrison's words hung inside his head like an earworm. He couldn't be rid of them.

The case was closed, solved, ended; put to bed and wrapped up in a little pretty bow.

And yet something nagged at him... was it almost too easy? He was too tired to think on it more.

Sherlock entered his home. It was quiet, no one was awake. He stood at the staircase which would lead him to his wife's room and then glanced at the back staircase which would lead him to Molly's.

Which path to take? A part of wanted to say neither. But Sherlock Holmes had never seen himself as a coward. As he ascended the staircase his phone chimed and he glanced at it.

 _My office, first thing- MH_

Sherlock groaned. Oh, just what he needed, a scolding from mummy!

The exhausted Watcher entered his wife's room and true to form Janine was waiting for him. A book open in her lap, The Joys of Motherhood as usual.

"Long day?" She asked him, as if she hadn't tried killing herself last night.

"Very." He replied. He changed and turned out the lights and got into bed with her. She reached down to touch him but he stopped her. Before she could mutter an indigent word he kissed her gently on the mouth, something he rarely did. It surprised them both.

"Not tonight. But when you are better, we will try." He said kindly to her.

Janine smiled at him and rolled over onto her side with Sherlock spooning her from behind. Her smile dropping as soon as her face was out of sight.

 _No Sherlock, I don't plan on getting better,_ Janine thought as she drifted off to sleep.


	9. CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER EIGHT

 ****

 **WARNING: SEXUAL CONTENT!**

Mycroft Holmes, Head of the Secret Police and the Monitoring of the Cardinal Law Security Act waited impatiently for his little brother. His fingers tapping rhythmically on his desk.

 _He's doing this on purpose,_ he thought. He glanced at his watch, twenty minutes late. Mycroft knew his brother better than the younger Holmes would care to admit. He derived pleasure from needling his big brother.

Too bad that though Mycroft was irritated with Sherlock, he had nerves of steel.

Finally, after forty minutes of waiting, Holmes the younger was ushered into Mycroft's domain. An underground secret security office where hush-hush mysteries went to die.

Or thrive, depending on who you asked.

Sherlock did not take the seat or coffee he was offered. He did however approach his brother's desk and hold out an expectant hand.

"Can't it wait?" Mycroft asked. But Sherlock only held out his hand, gesturing with his fingers to give it up. The elder brother groaned and removed from his breast pocket a single cigarette and he tossed Sherlock a lighter.

Holmes the younger lit up, he heard the tiny cogs in the walls turning as the air ventilation system kicked into overdrive to billow out the smoke.

"Well, now that that's out of the way, care to report?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock finally sat and leaned back comfortably.

"Mrs. Virginia Harrison was murdering Watchers, got her to confess. Case closed. Can I go now?" Sherlock said cordially. The elder sighed and shook his head.

"Sherlock, you do realize that perhaps there was more than one executioner?" Mycroft suggested.

Sherlock shook his head.

"Noo- _pe_. Security footage, places Mrs. Harrison at the scene of all five murders pulling the trigger herself, quite gleefully I might add, announcing the men were guilty."

"Guilty of what?" Mycroft queried.

"Of being men, being Watchers. Suffice to say they very much hated their husbands."

"What of the others?"

"They'll be sent to factories. Mrs. Harrison however will hang."

Mycroft nodded and waved his hands.

"Very well then, as you said, case closed."

"Yes. Bye-bye." Sherlock stood to leave but the door was locked. He groaned loudly.

"It's time." Mycroft said emotionlessly.

"Time for what? I have a case."

"No you don't you haven't even checked in yet."

"Still keeping tabs on me, big brother?"

"Always."

Sherlock whirled about and took another pull on his cigarette.

"You know, I'm starting to think I don't need you looking out for me anymore." Sherlock said with an aggressive smirk.

"What about Cardinal Magnusson?" Mycroft prompted. Sherlock restrained himself from choking on his cigarette smoke.

" _That_ name. I told you not to say that name in front me." Sherlock said dangerously.

"Sherlock, he's out to get you. You need to be careful. Stop blabbing to your little pet about this dysfunctional society we live in." Mycroft warned. Sherlock's trademark smirk returned.

"Oh, so you are listening. I was just joking."

"And yet you're not denying he's a pet."

"He's not but he's useful."

Mycroft leaned back in his chair and crossed a leg over the other.

"It's time, Sherlock."

Sherlock finished his cigarette in silence knowing that would frustrate his brother more than if he spoke. The silent treatment, childish but very effective.

The younger Holmes was then taken to another room and subjected to a drug screening. When he was a young man and a young Watcher he had requested to be placed in the V.I.C.E unit- Venality Intelligence Crime Enforcement.

Undercover work, weeding out the worst criminals that were polluting their society with drugs and horrendous crime.

Mycroft quietly took pity on his younger brother. He had been so young, so impressionable. The experience had changed him, left him scared and hollow. The things he had seen... Mycroft didn't have to imagine it. He had seen and saved his brother at his worst.

Sherlock however didn't like to be saved. He saw it as weakness though he knew protection was a necessary evil when it came to his work.

Mycroft's PA, Anthea, handed him Sherlock's report.

"Clean. Traces of nicotine and allergy medication." She said clinically.

"Yes. All the things he'll be expecting." Mycroft commented.

"Sir, I know it's not my place-"

"Then don't say it."

"You know I wouldn't be any fun if I did that." Anthea said with a smile Mycroft couldn't resist.

"Very well." He said giving her permission to continue.

"Sir, when will you tell him?" Anthea asked.

Mycroft handed her back the tablet, he had updated the date but the information stayed the same.

"Hopefully, never."

X

Sherlock exited his brother's dungeon in a foul mood. Last night he had held Janine and woken up in the same position. Besides the numbness he felt in his arm he was pleased to wake up beside her despite the sinking feeling in his gut that he felt when he thought of Molly all alone on the other side of the house. He had nearly gone to see her but stopped himself.

 _Control,_ he reminded himself.

John Watson was waiting in the lobby when he arrived at Station 4. Sherlock had ordered Irene not to rescind his security clearance. And yet the civil Captain still waited for an invitation.

"You've made up your mind then. The answer is yes." Sherlock said as John walked with him.

"How did you-"

"You came in person. Even a man like you would send a message. But because you chose to come here yourself means you're ready to get to work." Sherlock said quickly, firing off his answer like bullets from a gun.

John sighed.

"I should have guessed you'd know." John said defeatedly.

Someone walked into John, shoving him hard as if he were invisible and he made a face at the man.

"Excuse you." John said in irritation. The man in question had a pointed face and a scars on his right side, he actually sneered at John and Sherlock.

"Anderson." Sherlock said, with more than a little ire behind his voice.

"Holmes." The man named Anderson replied.

"Died again recently?" Sherlock prodded. John had no idea what he had just been pulled into but he immediately deduced it was some kind of rivalry. That was much was obvious to anyone.

"No, I'm riding solo now." Anderson said pompously.

"Ah, well that's good for you. I'm sure no one wants to waste anymore bullets."

Anderson attempted and failed to attack Sherlock because John had disarmed and had him on his back before he could contemplate what happened. The lobby went silent as John wrapped his fingers around the man's neck and placed a foot on his chest, crouching over him.

"Enough or I'll snap your rib cage in half." John warned. The creature named Anderson accepted the threat and stopped struggling.

John helped him to his feet and straightened his suit for him. Nothing worse than physically humiliating a man than fixing his attire.

"Off you pop." John said passively.

Anderson limped away, off to clean his wounded scabs somewhere else.

Sherlock smiled and everyone went about their business.

"Did I just make an enemy?" John asked Sherlock nodded quickly.

"Oh yes. He hates me and anyone who comes into contact with me, you would have been guilty by association even if you hadn't assaulted him. You'll have to watch your back." Sherlock said candidly.

"Oh, great."

They continued their journey, along the way John asked about Anderson.

"Philip Anderson is both a menace and a miracle," Sherlock began. "There have been a total of six attempts on his life, all by other Watchers, and he's walked away every time.

The first was a car bomb but it didn't detonate when it was meant to it just threw him fifteen feet. He was stabbed while driving and crashed the car. He's been set on fire, poisoned, and shot three times. But being shot only counts as one because it was one incident."

John gaped. How could a man survive all that?

"You see John, it's always the ones you hate that survive." Sherlock said as they entered his office.

The went on rather boringly. No interesting cases came through Sherlock felt compelled to leave the office for. Mostly he just sent Irene to do the leg work. Meanwhile John grew accustomed to spending time with Sherlock in the office rather than out of it.

A new desk had been added to Sherlock's office for John, there was space enough for it. They were side by side, the curtain on the window drawn. All manner of natural light could not penetrate the room.

"Why do you want to retire?" Sherlock asked out of the blue.

"Just want a new start, a new life."

"There's something terrible about the one you have?"

John ran a hand over his face and scratched his eye.

"No. I just need a change." The Captain replied. "Don't you ever want something else?"

Sherlock wanted to say "more than you could know".

Instead, "Of course not. I'm useful here." It was clipped and short and an answer he had given hundreds of times. He wondered if he sounded practiced to John.

Most likely it did. The Captain was proving to be less an idiot than most people. It's why Sherlock liked him so much. He kept him balanced. John reminded Sherlock that not everyone lived his lifestyle. There were other people, other people who mattered. Other people who had different lives.

People who might be happy in their place in the world where Sherlock wasn't.

The day ended without much of anything important happening.

Once more, Sherlock appeared disappointed and sad that there were no grim cases to be had.

"I was wondering, John, if this weekend you'd like to join my wife and I for dinner?" Sherlock asked as they made their way out of Station 4.

John was shocked. It was the first time Sherlock had ever even mentioned having a wife, let alone dinner. The soldier didn't think he had ever seen Sherlock eat anything.

"Oh, oh of course. Dinner. Yes." John replied, half muted half literate. Sherlock nodded.

"Great. I'll text the details. Goodnight, John." Sherlock said, waving awkwardly goodbye. John began to raise his hand but decided against it.

John made his way to a car. He remembered Anderson's bitter face and just to be sure he checked the car to make sure there was no bomb.

 _Getting blown up on the way home, that's all I need,_ John thought.

X

Janine was already in bed and asleep when Sherlock returned home. As per his usual routine he showered and changed but he wasn't tired.

 _Molly..._ his mind repeated the name over and over like a spell. And like some fabled hero in some strange story, Sherlock followed the vocal enchantment to her room.

The light was on which surprised him. The illumination caused him to knock instead of just walking in. Lightly, his rapped his knuckles against the wooden door.

Seconds later the sweet face of Molly Hooper appeared, cracking the door open.

Relief flooded into Sherlock like a balm to a burn.

 _She was waiting for me,_ he thought happily. He hadn't felt happiness in days, and before Molly, he rarely knew what the feeling was. She had given him that. And he coveted it greatly.

However, she didn't let him in right away.

 _She could be angry,_ he thought worriedly.

"May... may I come in?" Sherlock asked her quietly. She hesitated for a moment before allowing him entry.

Inside her room was glowing yellow with the soft light and for the first time Sherlock took in his surroundings. The walls were sparse but a small picture of a ginger cat hung in a child's frame near her bed. And on a night table next to the narrow single bed was a framed picture of a little girl in braided pigtails smiling shyly at the camera and a man with a protective arm wrapped around her shoulders could not be mistaken for anyone but her father.

Anton Hooper...

Sherlock remembers the man but tries not to. He had mentored Sherlock when he first became a Watcher. Mycroft likes to take all the credit that he was the only one who helped him after his time spent in the V.I.C.E unit. But it was Anton Hooper who pulled him out.

And it was Anton Hooper who Sherlock had murdered.

" _I knew this day would come,"_ Anton had said, he had been disappointed. A look of sadness crossed his elder features, but the man could not outrun death and his ruination had taken the form of Sherlock Holmes.

They had been in a car, it was a clear summer night. No dramatic thunder storm, no blizzard to trap them. No, Anton could have tried to run. But they both knew that wasn't who the elder Watcher was.

" _Take care of Molly, she had nothing to do with this. A child should not pay for the sins of her father."_ Anton had gone on, pulling on his leather gloves and fixing his suit. He wanted to die looking dignified. Sherlock couldn't blame him at the time.

Anton had looked at Sherlock, smiling proudly, the look of sadness dissipated.

" _Remember what you are, Sherlock."_ Anton's last words haunted Sherlock to this very day.

"Sir?" Molly said to him, the real world taking shape once more. He drew in a breath and asked if he could sit. Nervously Molly gestured to the bed as there was no where else to sit.

Awkwardly they sat together, she fidgeted with her hands in her lap. He reached out and stilled them gently.

Sherlock took in what she was wearing; a worn out grey nightgown that was a size too big for her, one shoulder was bare due to the size of it and Sherlock wanted to sink his teeth and lips into the flesh...

"I'm sorry I could not come to you sooner." He said softly. Molly wrapped her fingers around his hand.

"I understand. Your wife-"

"Don't, please." Sherlock begged. He reached up and cupped her face and kissed her forehead, then her cheeks then her lips.

It began slow and tentative but before long he could not control the beast within him and he was scooting her backwards until he could lay her down on her back.

"Wait, Sir," Molly protested and Sherlock stopped, much to his own surprise. Especially when he had always told himself he would take her no matter what she said. Now that she actually asked him to wait it was entirely different than in his mind.

Molly pushed him back until they were both upright once more.

"What we do, Sir," Molly began. "It's to make babies." Sherlock was confused, she wasn't making any sense, not to his lust fogged mind. But then he caught up with himself, she didn't know people had intercourse without wanting children. That they had sex for pleasure.

"No, Molly, that's not why all people do it." He told her. She looked bewildered.

"But the Maiden's Citadel and the doctors-"

"Are stupid, backward thinking fools." He snapped at her. She flinched at his words and looked away from him and he immediately apologized and corrected his tone.

"Molly, when I... lay with my wife, it's to produce a child. When I lay with you it's... different."

"Why?" She asked, of course she would ask why.

Sherlock felt like he was talking to a child. But sadly, in many ways, Molly had been raised to remain a child. Stuck in an endless circle of conditioned behavior and thinking.

 _Because I care for you more than my own wife,_ he wanted to say. Instead,

"Because I... I want it to be different." Was all Sherlock could say now. He didn't know what else to say-

 _Wrong, you know exactly what to say... just say it, tell her!_

Sherlock kissed her again and she kissed him back. He pulled her close to him and asked her to sit in his lap. She blushed at his request but granted it anyway, straddling him and whimpering softly when he pressed her down onto his hard cock. He gripped her hips as they kissed and showed her how to move against him.

Molly was growing bolder as their encounters increased and she reached down to slide her hands under his shirt and eventually pulled it off him.

Molly didn't know why she found his body so appealing but she did. Maybe it was because it was just another part of him, another part of the mystery that lurked behind blue eyes that seemed to luster and turn to green.

It was the first time she had fully seen him without a shirt on in the light, and it was beautiful.

Passionately, Sherlock claimed her mouth and she willingly parted her lips for him, kissing him back with as much vigor as ever.

Timidly she moved her hips against his without his supervision and he groaned deep in his chest, so hard that she felt it against her breast. He pulled the short sleeves of her nightgown off and pressed his mouth to her shoulders and neck and she held his head in place, all the while rocking her hips down to meet his.

"Sir... it hurts again." She whispered in his ear. He gazed up at her and stroked her red face, her cheeks burning.

"I'll make it better." He said deeply and she pressed her mouth to his as his long arms twined around her small form, pulling her hard against him so he could feel every inch of her.

"I'll always make it better." He promised. He reached down and lifted her nightgown and pulled her panties down until they were at her knees. She scooted back to take them off for him and he hardened further at how far she had come, how comfortable she was becoming with him in their intimate moments.

After divesting of her underwear she sat on her knees between his legs and he let her do whatever she wished to him.

First, she kissed his neck and then his face and his lips once more, all the while her hands roamed over various parts of his arms, shoulders and torso.

"Do you hurt too?" She whispered breathlessly. Sherlock wondered if she knew how provocative such words were to him. He was sure she wasn't aware of her own sexuality. Her own lack of experience made her even more alluring. That he could teach her, mould her and model her to his every liking thrilled the dark, hidden beast within himself.

 _But isn't that why you hate the Citadel and doctors?_

"Yes, yes," he panted against her mouth as they hotly kissed once more. He took her hand and laid it against his throbbing cock, still confined in his night clothes. She moaned and gripped his length through the material without much suggestion and soon his hand fell away and he glanced down between them, in the small space where her hand held him, and he watched in a drunken haze as her petite hand stroked him.

It was one of the most erotic things he had ever witnessed. He bit his lip and leaned his head back against the wall where the bed was pushed. His eyes half open, half closed. She was learning quite quickly. Without instruction she bravely reached inside and pulled his hot manhood forth and it twitched greedily in her hand when it met the cool air of her bedroom.

Her hands stroked his cheek and he turned his head and took her thumb into his mouth, taking great pleasure in her moan.

Sherlock stifled a gasp, he only gripped her arm as she resumed her stroking. After a moment, he took her hand and licked her palm, she made an alarmed face but he reassured her, and then returned it to his cock.

Molly seemed to understand why he did it.

He shivered when her moist palm met him once more.

Sherlock felt his orgasm approaching and stopped her. He lifted her nightgown off her body entirely and pulled back to sit on his lap, her hot moist center inches from the head of his prick.

"Like this?" She questioned nervously and he nodded.

With one hand on her hip and the other guiding himself into her, her mouth dropped open in a gasp as it always did when he filled her empty cunt.

She gripped his shoulders and rested her head in his neck. He had never been so deep inside her before. She felt so utterly, deliriously full. It wasn't painful it was just surprising.

Sherlock took a moment to relax, he knew if he began too soon it would be over before he knew it. He needed to calm down. Molly, however, had other ideas.

He didn't know what prompted her, he surely did not, but perhaps it was just pure animal instinct, but she slowly began moving her hips against him.

Sherlock's eyes rolled back into his head and couldn't help but the groan that escaped his lips.

"Please, Sir," she whispered to him and he felt something inside him snap. The beast took charge.

Molly watched as a dark look came over his face, his eyes seemed to change, his lips curled back almost in a snarl and he sat up, yanking her hard and fast down onto his manhood. She gasped in surprise and held onto him tightly.

Sherlock did not spare her, not this time.

He thrust hard and forcefully into her and she cried out in pleasure. Her fingernails raked his back, against scars and old wounds.

"Si-sir..." she whimpered through her own passion. He stopped and removed himself from her. She put her hands over her mouth as her body convulsed and twitched at the loss of him. And all the sudden he was behind her.

"Get on your hands and knees." He ordered darkly and she did, afraid but eager. He took hold of her hips and pulled her close to his groin and without warning slid himself back into her. The new position caused her to cry out and she gripped the sheets tightly in her little fists.

Sherlock resumed his mad thrusting, using her, using her body, using her devotion. He was lost, consumed by her. Consumed by his own desire. He knew he would burn for it.

Each thrust knocked her torso closer and closer to the bed until she was lying at an angle, letting him have his way with her.

He felt like an animal, he felt powerful, he felt primal. He felt like he owned her.

He reached down and pulled her back against his chest so she had to sit on her knees as he fucked her. He wrapped an arm around her chest, his hand squeezing and massaging her small breast. She stared ahead, not knowing where else to look, her mouth open, her tongue darting out every now and then to lick her lips.

"Does it feel good?" He whispered into her ear, letting his teeth graze the flesh of her neck, his voice didn't sound like his own. Molly nodded.

"Tell me you like it." He ordered her and it took her a moment to find her own voice again.

"I... I like it, sir." She whimpered shyly. He smirked and kissed her neck.

"Do you like it when I fuck you?" He asked, when she didn't answer he stilled and ran a hand down tummy and between her legs, flicking her little clit and causing her to jerk against him.

"Please, sir, I can't..." She said weakly, out of breath and sweaty from his rigorous, aggressive rutting.

"Shh, yes you can sweet girl. Tell me you like it when I fuck you and I'll make you feel better." He said into her ear, like a devil.

"I..."

"Yes?"

"I like it when... you _**fuck**_ me." She said and Sherlock forced her down again, thrusting harder than he had before. Molly lay flat on her stomach with his body crouched over, his arms trapping her in a fleshy cage as he moved against her in wild abandon.

Sherlock didn't care who heard them. If Mrs. Hudson burst open the door right now he wouldn't give a damn. All that mattered was this moment, this moment in time with Molly Hooper. The rest of the world could go to hell.

He saw her little fist gripping the sheet and he reached his own sweaty hand out and interlocked their fingers together.

Sherlock felt her cunt contracting around him.

 _Just a little longer,_ he thought.

When he felt Molly thrust back onto him and then witnessed her bury her face in the pillow to stifle her cry he knew she had come. He swore he could feel it, her release oozing onto him and down her thighs.

Sherlock reared back onto his knees, holding her hips in a bruising grip and fucking her hard until his release ripped through his body causing him to feel boneless. The greatest high he had ever felt was when he was coming, buried inside Molly Hooper.

Through clenched teeth he cried out, pumping his come into her, filling her quim.

Sherlock nearly collapsed on top of her but stopped himself. He could feel her shaking. He turned her over, cradling her in his arms, and he pulled back the covers and tucked them both underneath.

Molly was half awake half knocked out. She made little whimpering noises when he ran his hands overs over her body. Her breasts were swollen and he touched them and ran his knuckles across her hard nipples, leaning down and taking one into his mouth, keeping her fire burning hot. Making her yearn for him once more.

Sherlock pressed a hand over her stomach, soothing her, gently rubbing and for a moment, one that he could not explain in the moment or after, he wanted a child to take form inside Molly.

Sherlock had never had such a thought with Janine or any woman he had ever slept with. But for some reason he imagined Molly with a little bump in her belly, a child tucked safely within her. He almost felt himself become overwhelmed by the notion.

He... _wanted_ that.

Molly moaned softly and as she came back to herself and she smiled up at him and he returned it. She leaned up and kissed his jaw, running her hand down his sweaty muscular chest. He felt himself growing hard once more, the sensation was almost too much.

Did she understand- even comprehend- the power she had over him?

 _No, how could she?_

"Do you love me?"

The words seem to replay in slow motion. He watched her lips as she said them once and a thousand times in his mind. Immediately he tensed, the moment evaporating like Mrs. Harrison's cigarette smoke.

 _Do you love me... do you love me... do. You. LOVE ME!_

Coldly he turned his face away from her, awkwardly her hand lingered on his arm, unsure now whether to continue touching him or not.

"Sir?" She said meekly, almost fearfully.

"Molly," He he said curtly, still not looking at her. "This... this is not... _love_."

 _LIAR!_ His heart roared to life. But he closed himself off from it, slamming it shut like a disappointing book and throwing it across the room into a fire.

"I don't understand." She said sadly. He could hear the timber in her voice change, tears were seconds away.

 _Remain cold, remain in control- LIAR!_

"Shut up." He snapped before he could stop himself from the saying the words. He realized he was no longer holding Molly, that she was back up against the wall where the bed met, blankets pulled up to her chest, she was shaking.

 _That's it, hate me, fear me... LIAR!_

"This is simply a release." He said clinically, he still hadn't risen from the bed. He couldn't bring himself to yet.

Molly's chest was heaving, she felt sick, she felt trapped, she felt suffocated. Like an invisible force was suddenly sitting on her chest. She didn't know how to speak. She was mute, small... stupid.

 _You stupid, foolish little girl,_ she berated herself.

"No need to cry." Sherlock said calculatedly. "I'm married."

"You... you said it was... different." Molly found her voice through the trauma.

"It is. A different release." _LIAR!_

 _This is it. Lose her. Make her hate you. No, make her_ fear _you. You're ruined, you've ruined her. What's one more broken heart in the long line of hearts and lives you've destroyed? Go on. Make her_ **FEAR** _you._

Molly felt the shift in the mattress, her eyes downcast. His fingers gripped her chin firmly, not gently or warmly like he had in the past. There was something in his grasp that made her attempt to back away even more. But she had nowhere to go. The feeling of being trapped escalated. She tried to bring her knees up to her chest, as a weak little form of protection, but his other hand grasped her knee.

"Stay still, Molly, I thought you enjoyed this." He whispered darkly, crudely.

Molly didn't know how to describe it. Before when he spoken such things to her it had excited her, thrilled her, soak her from the inside out. But not there was something dark about his voice, something hidden and unseen. Something that was devoid of passion, devoid of compassion, devoid of humanity.

"Please, don't hurt me," she found herself begging through sobs and tears.

 _Why? What have I done?_

Sherlock wrapped a hand around her knee and pulled, extending her leg and forcing them apart, settling himself between them. He wouldn't have to go too far... he wasn't even aroused anymore. Perhaps she wouldn't notice.

Sherlock gripped her wrists and held her down, hard. Hard enough to hurt, hard enough to scare her.

"Now, now Molly stop fighting." He said with a queer smile that frightened her even more. His face was changing, warping into something that didn't recognize it. She didn't know him anymore- not that she truly did before- but this wasn't him. Something in her gut was telling her this wasn't him. But the fear of being wrong, the doubt that perhaps it was sunk even deeper into her.

"No, no stop, just stop it!" Molly said struggling harder against him. Her hands pushed against him and he felt her nails scrape against his chest, he bit back at the pain.

 _You deserve worse!_

"Stop it, Molly! I'm going to fuck you hard whether you want it or not. Wet or dry, I don't care." He said lethally to her.

That seemed to do the trick because the next thing Sherlock knew her hand came swinging across his face, he saw stars, not thinking the small woman had it in her. The strength and ability and the courage. He could fire her for it and send her to a factory.

Molly didn't seem to be thinking about the consequences and slapped him again. Sherlock backed off from her little barrage. Yes, it was the fear and reaction he had been hoping for but it was like reality had become a fist and that first belonged to Molly Hooper.

A third slap resounded in the room, he felt her nail scrape his cheek.

"How... how dare you!" She hissed at him and began shoving him away. Away from her, away from the bed that stunk of their love making. Away from anything that was hers.

"Get away. Don't come back for... for _this_." She ordered him, gesturing between the two of them with a shaking hand, a hand that was now beginning to burn with her brutal slaps.

Sherlock stared threateningly at her for a moment. She felt held her breath, unsure of what he would do next.

And that was the moment he knew she began to realize what she said. Her eyes dropped for a moment before bravely returning to his own.

 _She's standing her ground, good, I'd be disappointed if she didn't,_ he thought sadly.

Sherlock stood, dressed and left the room, leaving Molly breathless, angry and heavily unsure of what her position would be in the morning.

Until then, Molly stripped her bed, redressed it with new sheets and turned out her light. Wrapping her arms around herself, crying until she was exhausted and passed out.

Sherlock dressed and left the house behind as he drove out into the night. It was still early in the night. He wanted to be far away. He didn't know where. Just as far away from everyone as he could possibly get.

Sherlock knew where he wanted to go but it wasn't where he should go. It wasn't even where he _needed_ to go. But what he wanted and needed were two very different things.

 _Or perhaps they're the same..._

It wasn't healthy, he'd be clean for years. But not after this night. No, for the first time in five years, Sherlock Holmes, was going to get high. And he didn't really care if he came back or not.


	10. CHAPTER NINE: What Lies Inside

CHAPTER NINE

What Lies Inside

 **AN: warning for sexual content!**

John Watson had never met the Head of the Secret Police and the Monitoring of the Cardinal Law Security Act. He didn't even know there was a real person who held the title; he assumed it was just a name meant to frighten people. Another bureau dedicated to policing ordinary and often times honest civilians.

But no, as it happened, the head of the SPMCLSA, or "Spemclasa" as some people referred to it, was a real living person. And he happened to be the elder brother of Sherlock-fucking-Holmes.

 _Left that bit out when we met,_ John thought as he waited for Mr. Holmes in his underground office. John was unpleasantly uncomfortable at the idea of being trapped underground with a man he didn't know in a place he didn't even know existed until two men in black suits and a pretty woman showed up at his flat and asked him- ordered him- to go for a ride with them.

John was frisked and his gun and knife were taken from him and he was asked to remove his shoes before entering the office.

 _Do they think my shoes are a bomb?_ He thought.

Mr. Holmes the elder was on time unlike his little brother. He was not what John was expecting. He was expecting someone who looked more like Sherlock. Where there was some familial resemblance the two men could have been completely unrelated.

"Captain Watson," Mycroft Holmes said politely extending a hand to him. The two men shook hands and observed the other. Mycroft offered John a seat.

"You're probably wondering why you're here." Mycroft began, sitting behind his large desk, the woman who had escorted John to the dungeon waited in front of the door.

John could tell she wasn't an SH. No, she was far too real to be one of them.

"You can't imagine what I'm thinking," John said sarcastically. Mycroft smirked, almost in distaste.

"My brother failed to check in this morning." Mycroft said, cutting to the chase immediately. John found that that was one thing he could like about this man.

"And?" John replied with a shrug. "Maybe he's on a case."

"My brother has no cases at the moment, Captain Watson." Mycroft informed him. John was still confused, he didn't understand why he was here.

"Look, maybe he slept in."

Mycroft seemed to be capable of sneering and laughter at the same time. A trait that made John even more unsettled.

"Captain Watson, I'll be frank with you, my younger brother has many admirable qualities... but," Mycroft paused, seeming to be thinking on what to say next.

" _But_?" John helped him along.

"But, he too like any man, has demons."

"What's that got to do with me? I've barely spent any time with him."

"And yet he's already invited you to dine with him." Mycroft interjected.

"Maybe he's just being polite."

"My brother isn't polite, as I'm sure you've been made aware."

John was beginning to take back what he thought of Mycroft Holmes; he didn't cut to the chase, he didn't get right to the point, the man was playing with him. Making him jump through metaphorical hoops.

"Look either spit it out or let me go." John said, his temper rising.

"My brother is missing, Captain Watson and I want you to go and find him."

 _That's more like it,_ John thought.

"Why not send some of your Watchers or spooks after him?" John suggested, flippantly of course. Company manners be damned!

"Where I want you to go-where I know Sherlock will be-I can't send Watchers."

"And _where_ exactly would that be?" John asked.

"The NLD."

John felt the world shift. No wonder Mycroft was so... was worried the right word? It all made sense now.

The Neon Lights District was more than a rough place. It was the outskirts of the city. It was beyond all the sectors, beyond all the station houses. Beyond everything that was considered to law and order. The badlands of depravity.

Crude, loud, sweaty, debauched...

It's where people went to die or live in poverty for the rest of their lives. Where businessmen got their rocks off, where prostitutes and pimps seemed to bleed and pus out of the woodwork. A place where there was now law. No dignity.

A place of where no ordinary citizen dared go unless you were a real junkie, thrill seeker or just plain fucking stupid.

 _Or assassinating someone,_ John thought coldly, clenching his fist that rested on his leg, out of sight of Mycroft Holmes.

For a few moments, reliving the times he had gone undercover in the NLD, he pictured Sherlock Holmes there. The great and arrogant man wasting his brain, wasting his life.

It made John sick to his stomach.

It's also where John lost something... _someone_.

 _You still can't say my name, can you?_ He heard her voice like she was standing right next to him.

"When do you want me to go?" John asked, his anger was set aside. His ability to see beyond the arrogance of Mycroft Holmes dissipated and was placed on the back burner.

"When can you be ready?" Mycroft asked, he was testing the waters. Trying to finally come to a conclusion of what kind of man John Watson was.

"Give me my gun and I'll go right now."

The two men, with the help of the woman who John lated learned name was Anthea, helped him organize a drop-off and pick-up point. If the pick-up failed there would be a car waiting at another pick-up zone, but John would have to drive the getaway car.

Mycroft equipped John with a new body armor made from the same materials as the SH's.

John's weapons were minimal. Two sidearms and a boot knife. He couldn't really walk into the NLD with an assault rifle, even though plenty of mad people would be carrying them.

Mycroft instructed John on the best places to look first, Sherlock's usual haunts.

"Only two men have ever successfully extracted my brother from such a place, Captain Watson," Mycroft informed him as John prepared to leave. "I'll tell you what I told them, don't be a hero. Just get him back."

John snickered.

"And who were these great men? I'd like to meet them." John said, imaging some brooding toughs guy with broken noses and dark eyes.

"You already met one of them." Mycroft said, giving him a knowing look.

John realized what Mycroft meant and felt a strange pang of admiration.

 _Not just a desk-jockey after all,_ John thought as he was lead by Anthea out of the underground chamber.

When John felt sunlight on his face again he breathed a sigh of relief.

In the car Anthea went over his mission statement one more time.

"I got this, I was a soldier ya know?" John said as she spoke and she put the tablet away, smiling.

"And a spy. Any good?" She asked, he nodded.

 _Is she flirting?_ John thought curiously. He wanted to show her just how good he was.

"You've read my file." John pointed out.

"Yes." Was all she said. He smiled again and cleared his throat.

 _Okay, let's see where this goes,_ he thought. A little flirting never hurt anyone.

"I know it's nothing serious between you and your boss. I know you're more dangerous than most people. I know you're flexible," John said, testing the waters and seeing how far she would go.

Anthea smirked, a face that seemed to say "go on".

"Gymnast?" John asked.

"Ballet." She replied.

When had they moved closer to each other? The car went over a bump and they seemed to use it as an excuse to move closer. Her hand falling on his forearm.

"You know a man usually thinks about two things before going into battle," John said, his voice lowering. Anthea raised an eyebrow, those full lips begging to be kissed.

"What's that?" She whispered, moving ever closer to him.

 _This stopped being just flirting a few inches ago,_ John thought.

"His family," his lips were millimeters from hers.

"Uh-huh."

 _Fuck it,_ was the last thing John Watson thought before she grabbed him by the collar and pressed her captivating lips against his. Apparently she definitely agreed they were done with the flirting stage. Not that it lasted that long anyway...

The next thing John knew he was pressed back against the seat of the car and the woman named Anthea was straddling him, her fine black pencil skirt stretching as he attempted to push it up her thighs.

 _John Watson, are you really going to take a woman in the backseat of a car?_

John opened his eyes and glanced behind her head at the driver, again Anthea seemed to have the same thought and with a free hand she pressed a small black button on the door console and the window went up. Their lips parted so they both could breathe again.

 _Yes I am fucking am,_ he thought as he felt himself harden even more.

Panting against her lips, John spoke,

"Oh, I like you." He said profoundly, like he was confessing to a Cardinal.

"What's the second thing?" Anthea whispered, leaning in close to his ear, kissing his lips now and again and eventually moving to his neck.

John gripped her hips tightly in his hands before finally giving that damn skirt a firm yank, causing Anthea herself to jump a little.

With a firm hold on this goddess he leaned in closer, putting one hand on the side of her neck. Those brown marble eyes glazed over with longing.

"To fuck a beautiful woman." He said. Anthea smirked and resumed their passionate kiss.

John rolled them so he was on top of her, her curvy thighs spreading easily for him and wrapping around his waist.

Firmly, John began moving against her. Even through the material of his trousers he could feel her lace panties, soaked with her own desire, grazing his aching cock; the sensation causing millions of pleasurable tingles up and down his spine.

"Fuck." He moaned as her hips met his.

John squeezed and massaged her breast, careful not to rip the material of her blouse, knowing she had to return to work after their little tryst but wanting so desperately to tear her clothes to bits.

John wasn't like Sherlock, he hadn't been repressed. He had been trained to use his sexuality if he needed to. As a spy he had to be many different people.

But right now he was just a man; a man possibly going to his death, a man who wanted to feel the warmth and comfort of a woman.

Anthea reached down and gripped his hard cock through his pants and he moaned hotly against her mouth.

"Come on, Captain," she said darkly. "Impress a girl."

"Yeah? You want me to?" He said, nipping down her jaw and neck. She nodded her head.

"You want this?" He whispered pressing his fingertips to her opening. She shuddered and gasped as he pushed her panties aside and teased her.

"No... no time. Please." She begged. John smirked down at her as he rubbed her clit in little tight circles.

"You started this, woman, now it's my turn." He watched as she was both tense for time and thrilled at the prospect of what he would do to her.

Their mouths met once more, her hand gripping the back of his neck as the speed of his fingers became quicker. Her head fell back, she gripped him tighter, like if she let go she would fall away into nothing.

John let the steaming abyss swallow him as he slipped a finger inside her, still massaging and toying with her clit. He knew they didn't have much time, god how he knew the car could come to a stop any minute. But that didn't stop him.

"You want to cum? You want me to make you cum like this?" He said against her mouth, his tongue flicking out and grazing her own, still teasing her.

"Yes, yes," she replied, breathless.

John thrust a little harder, his wrist was getting tired but it didn't stop him. He loved watching a woman's face when she came. It was exhilarating, it was addicting, it was fucking toxic.

It was the man inside every man, the one that told them to throw a woman over his shoulder and drag her off to his cave. The conqueror ready for their next conquest.

John watched the sweet face she made when she reached her climax, her eyes closing, her mouth parting, the sharp little gasps she made as her cunt twitched and flexed.

He wasted no time in reaching between them and unbuckling his belt and unzipping his trousers, he jerked himself a couple time before positioning himself closer to her.

John let himself get lost in the torrid heat of Anthea, a moan escaping both of their lips. He braced his hand on the door console, consolidating all his effort into rocking his hips and began thoroughly fucking her.

His hips snapping hard into her own, he leaned in close,

"Is this it? Is this what you wanted?" He sighed, their breath mixing and mingling, their desperation to be closer than they already were overwhelming.

Anthea nodded.

"Yes- oh god, yes." She moaned and he kissed her hard again. Teeth hit, lips were swollen, they were in complete disarray.

John felt himself getting closer. With a woman like Anthea you didn't hold out for long. The way her hips cradled him, the way her lips begged him and the intensity of her gaze brought him closer and closer.

"Fuck, _fuck_." He moaned.

John gripped the door console so hard he chafed his hand as he came inside her.

When he came back to himself, he felt her stroking the sides of his head. He knew he had to put himself back together quick but all he wanted was to remain in the arms of Anthea. He felt... home for a brief moment. Back when home had been a real future with someone.

With _her_.

The moment ended and John and Anthea were fixing their clothes.

"Thank you, Captain Watson," Anthea said and she handed him a bottle of water, splashing a little on her cheeks and pulling her messy hair into a ponytail.

"Thank you, Anthea," John said taking a sip of his water.

 _Back to business as usual,_ he thought.

Eventually the car did come to a stop and the real work began.

X

"Where's that maid, Mrs. Hudson? The frail looking one." Janine asked the old woman as she was brought her tea.

"Oh, she's taken to bed, my Lady. She's feeling ill." Mrs. Hudson explained, motherly.

"Ill? Does she have sick days?" Janine asked and Mrs. Hudson nodded. "I'd like to see her."

Mrs. Hudson shook her head.

"Oh, no my dear, you need your rest." The old woman chided. Janine rolled her eyes.

"Mrs. Hudson please, I'd like to feel useful. Please, take me to...?"

"Molly."

"Yes. Molly. Please."

The two women made their way to servant's quarters. Mrs. Hudson pointed out Molly's room. Janine knocked. There was a little noise, the sound of rushing footsteps. Mrs. Hudson looked about awkwardly, as if they shouldn't be there.

 _It's my damn house too,_ Janine thought bitterly.

The door opened and standing there looking a terrible fright was Molly. Without question, hesitation or invitation the maid stepped aside and allowed only Janine inside.

"Oh dear." Mrs. Hudson said unsure of what to do with herself.

 _If the Lady finds out...!_ Mrs. Hudson thought frantically.

Inside Janine looked about the little room. She had never been inside a servant's room before. It was all very ordinary. She glanced at a picture of a little girl with a grown man but didn't pay it much mind.

"Mrs. Hudson says you're feeling unwell." Janine said matter of factly. Molly nodded.

"What's wrong?" Janine asked her, sitting on her bed. Molly's eyes seemed to widen for a moment before relaxing, somewhat, again.

"I- I'm ashamed to say, my Lady." Molly squeaked out, looking down at her feet. Janine hushed her and asked her to sit down. Molly sat beside her Lady.

"You can tell me. We're friends." Janine said kindly. She didn't know why she was taking it upon herself to care about Molly. Why was she? She didn't know and she didn't care. The girl looked terrible, as if some monster was going to burst through the walls of reality and steal her away to an alternate world.

"I'm... I'm agitated." Molly said, she was shaking like a leaf. Her hands trembled in her lap. Janine felt her concern rising for Molly. The girl was more than agitated.

"Please, tell me. What are your symptoms?" Janine asked sympathetically. The woman had had her fair share of medical concerns and had seen doctor Lynn enough times to be certified!

Molly began to cry quietly. Janine wrapped an arm around the girl's shoulders.

"Please, don't cry," Janine said, her anxiety spiking, her fear mounting.

 _Only one of us should cry,_ Janine thought sadly. Her heart was clenching, why was Molly so sad?

Molly gulped, choking back her sobs.

"I'm... I have a... burning, and itching too." Molly said, she was looking around the room nervously.

 _She's afraid,_ Janine realized.

"What else?" Janine asked, taking charge and ready to get to the bottom of what was wrong with this maid.

Molly shook her head.

"No, please, I can't it's so embarrassing." Molly pleaded. Janine hushed her again and pulled the girl closer, embracing her and holding her.

Both women were surprised by the movement but neither tried to pull away. After a moment of Molly weeping the other woman pulled away a little and wiped her cheeks.

"What else, Molly?" Janine asked her firmly.

"It's... sore and there's something coming out." Molly said vaguely.

Janine frowned.

"Where does it hurt, Molly? Please, you need to tell me. I won't laugh, I promise."

Taking a deep breath, Molly pointed downward with one trembling finger. Janine followed her motion and realized what exactly Molly was pointing at.

"Down there?" Janine asked, unembarrassed. Molly looked away and nodded.

"You're coming with me." Janine said decidedly. "Get dressed and meet me downstairs. I'll order a car."

Before Molly could protest Janine was already on her way out and calling her doctor and a car.

At doctor Lynn's office Molly was a ball of tense panic. Janine, however, was feeling confident. She was feeling determined.

"Mrs. Holmes?" The receptionist named Jane called.

Janine and Molly approached the desk.

"We've been waiting for doctor Lynn for almost an hour." Janine said, trying to be polite but her irritation was beginning to show.

"Yes, ma'am, but your maid isn't covered on any kind of health plan. I'm afraid we can't see her." Jane said, her faux sympathy was easier to read than a cheat sheet.

Molly made some excuse and said they should leave, but Mrs. Holmes stood her ground, taking Molly's hand in her own.

Janine smiled.

"Is that so?" Janine questioned, however it wasn't really a question, it was a challenge.

Jane nodded curtly. Mrs. Holmes leaned forward.

"You know who I am?" She said to Jane who glanced behind her a the other patients waiting. "Hey, eyes up here frumpy dumpy," Janine said sharply, snapping her fingers in Jane's face which startled the crispy woman.

"I'm married to the head of the POI. Sherlock Holmes, you do know who he is?" Janine said, her tone soft and yet utterly menacing. Jane nodded once more.

"Then you know that if I ask him he'll find something. Something on your husband, something on you. Something on your children and before you know it, Jane, your whole world will be on fire. I can make that happen with one phone call. Don't make me do that, Jane."

Jane cleared her throat, her eyes glassy.

"Doctor Lynn will see if you five minutes-"

"You've got two or I'm making a call." Janine threatened.

Janine and Molly sat back down.

"Can you do that? Can Mr. Holmes do that?" Molly asked.

Janine smiled cynically.

"Molly dear, I honestly have no idea for sure what my husband does for a living. But I once told a man who my husband was and he went white as a sheet. Paled right before my eyes and proceeded to tell me what a law abiding citizen he was. Every party I go with him, people look at him like he's god's right hand or the devil himself," Janine paused and looked at Molly who seemed entranced by what she was hearing.

"He's a good man and a bad man. But I never know which man sleeps beside me. I love him because I'm married to him. And I hate him because I don't have a child. I fear him because of how people look at him, how they look at me. You're lucky, Molly.

You'll never have the burden of loving someone and not knowing why."

If only Janine knew how wrong she was.

Doctor Lynn called Molly into the examination room, she had to go in alone.

Molly nearly cried when he asked to get on the table so he could examine her privates.

"Miss. Hooper, I need to ask you a delicate question," he said as he finished his exam.

Doctor Lynn was middle aged and had a nice face and graying hair.

"Have you been sexually active lately?"

The question hung in the air and Molly felt it took her years to respond. Molly knew she couldn't lie to a doctor. They knew everything. He would certainly know if she was lying.

"Yes." She said, hanging her head.

"It's alright, you're not in trouble. It's human nature no matter what kind of conditioning you were raised with. On your chart it says you're an Infertile so I'm not worried about a pregnancy." He said, he patted her foot gently and she closed her legs.

Molly nodded at his question.

"You have a yeast infection brought on by sexual activity. When a woman, such as yourself, who has not had sexual intercourse before partakes in such activities suddenly the common and good bacteria in the vagina can become off balanced causing a yeast infection. Your vaginal lining is also extremely chafed and irritated. I would recommend that your young man slow things down a bit." He said with a kind looking smile.

"But-"

"No buts, Miss. Hooper. I'm prescribing you a single pill that should make you feel better. But please try to abstain from intercourse until it clears up."

"I'm... I'm not in trouble?" Molly asked, wondering if this was some kind of trick.

Doctor Lynn looked surprised and then nodded understandably.

"Miss. Hooper, it's not illegal for persons such as yourself to have sex. You're not in trouble, I just want you to be careful. Does your young man ever wear a condom?"

Molly shrugged and he nodded again, realizing once more who he was talking to.

"Alright, here we go." He said and it was then that Molly received a crash course in sex and protection. Molly was utterly overwhelmed by all of it. And on the the drive home she became angry at Mr. Holmes more than she was sad.

After what Doctor Lynn told her she realized Mr. Holmes had never worn any kind of protection, had never asked, had never told her. Surely a grown man like himself knew of such things.

Doctor Lynn had explained to her that using protection was very important even if she couldn't get pregnant. He gave her another crash course on STD's. It had frightened Molly but he reassured her that as long as she went about having sex in a safe way she would be alright.

"It's very important you make him wear one, Molly," Doctor Lynn explained and sent her home with a small packet of condoms. "Trust me, if he doesn't know what it is or how to put it on or refuses to, _do not_ have sex with him." He joked but he had also been very serious.

"I can understand why you like, Dr. Lynn." Molly said on the way home. Janine smiled and took Molly's hand in her own.

"Feel better?" Janine asked. To be fair, Molly was still very sore and anxious, but all she had to do was take a pill when she got home and that was relief enough.

"I am." Molly said, squeezing Janine's hand.

"I'm glad we're friends, Molly Hooper." Janine said sweetly.

Molly nodded, agreeing. She had never had a friend before. Not one, no one but her father. She had hoped Mr. Holmes had wanted to be her friend. In a way he had been until his attention towards her altered and now they were... whatever they were now.

 _We're nothing. I mean nothing,_ Molly thought gravely.

And deep down, she felt horrid in her deceit of Mrs. Holmes, her Lady, her friend.

Molly knew she would never tell the other woman that her husband was the cause of not only her physical pain but her emotional quandary as well.

 _I have to tell her, but then she won't be my friend,_ Molly thought. _What do I do?_

And as much as she hated Mr. Holmes, as angry as she was at him, no matter how many reasons she thought up to despise him... she couldn't.

Something about last night didn't sit right. Looking back, how could he have gone so quickly from tender to cruel?

His coldness was something she had grown accustomed to but he had never made her feel unsafe.

Was it because of what she asked? It didn't mean anything, did it? It was just a question, just a simple word.

But that one simple word had changed her in such a short period of time. It had mutated her whole world. A new world was forming, growing inside her and she didn't know what to do about it.

 _This can't be love. Love wouldn't hurt, would it?_

 **AN: I want to take this time to thank all of you for the lovely reviews and comments. Thank you so much! I know you're probably wondering why this chapter has a title when the others didn't, I have my reasons. Chapter titles are hard for me to come up with so when they do I name them. Silly but that's me! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Thanks again 3**


	11. CHAPTER TEN: Demon-Man

CHAPTER TEN

Demon-Man

 **AN: WARNING FOR DRUG USE AND SEXUAL CONTENT (also: I'm writing this while listening to the soundtrack of The Neon Demon, Drive and various retrowave playlists on YouTube, just to give you an idea what the world of the NLD is like)**

Sherlock Holmes had an idea of where he was but unlike most of the time he was not one hundred percent sure.

 _The Neon Lights District, I remember that much,_ he thought blandly, coming out of his stupor.

A needle hung out of his arm and he pulled it out, dropping it to the floor. His hands felt numb and he blinked a few times to get his bearings.

He takes his time but still stands too quickly and as he crashes to the floor all the colors in the world assault his eyes and he's blinded. He hears music suddenly, muffled and loud, beating into his brain like a hammer beating a nail; but the nail isn't moving, the hammer just bounces off making a nails on a chalkboard noise that it shouldn't.

 _Redbeard..._

And then the world drops back into itself and he's falling but everything around him is staying still.

 _Too much, too much, too much..._ his brain tries to restart itself but fails and he's still falling while the room stays still.

Sherlock knew he hadn't had much but it had been strong... one needle, that's all it took.

 _Control, control,_ he reminds himself.

 _Redbeard,_ a voice says and he snaps back once more. The room is still, he is still. He sits up, more slowly this time.

Nothing is spinning, he isn't drowning in his own vomit.

Five years clean, washed down the drain, injected into his bloodstream. His vice, the shit he got hooked on when he was undercover.

 _Felicity,_ he thought.

That's what the drug dealers named it. A swirling, fucking bitch of a cocktail. One shot, one injection, one vape from it and you were a goner. The high was intense, excessive, vivid and violent. And every time you tried Felicity it was like playing Russian Roulette.

So far, Sherlock had survived every time.

 _Where am I?_ He thought.

He stumbled into a small room that took him a moment to realize was a bathroom.

Crouching and eventually falling hard onto his knees he stuck a couple fingers down his throat and forced himself to vomit. He knew if he didn't do it now the chances of doing it in a less than convenient place would happen.

Sherlock knew he needed water. Something refreshing, something that wasn't Felicity.

And at the thought of it's name he wanted more...

One more needle...

The room seemed to suddenly become real, not just floating formless objects in a square space.

A filthy bed, a couple junkies passed out on the floor. There was no door to the room, just a flimsy cheap curtain. The pretty lights, every color of the fucking rainbow and heaven above, beckoned him closer like a siren.

Like an ever changing wispy hand crooked a finger at him, dragging him to the edge of a neon chasm. It's maw, bright and beautiful, it's rewards fatal.

Sherlock followed the lights like the fabled hero he thought himself to be.

 _All heroes die,_ he thought.

Coming back to himself, the high slowly fading, he realized where he was.

 _Bliss,_ he deduced.

It had been a favorite club of his. He found it strangely funny he would end up here.

Sherlock got about two feet towards the bar when he was stopped by a giant. Literal giant. The man stood about eight feet tall, his head was shaved and the names of his victims were tattooed on various parts of his body. He was missing part of his left ear and his teeth were the size of small rocks.

"Oh, you." Sherlock groaned.

"He wants to see you." The Gollum grinned, his voice deep and nearly incoherent.

"I'm waiting." Sherlock snarkily replied. He might be more than a little off his ass but he couldn't stop himself from being an asshole.

Roughly the Gollum forced Sherlock towards the spiral staircase. The club always looked so different from high above. The room seemed to spin as he ascended.

 _Hell isn't below, it's high, high above,_ he thought as he watched the people dance, gyrate and vape and inject.

There was a couple in the corner rutting horridly, Sherlock wondered if it was even consensual. He didn't think about it.

High above the crowd of sweaty bodies, most of them walking corpses, Sherlock was seated opposite _him_.

Sherlock observed him. He hadn't changed much. Tall, pale, his gray hair slicked back professionally. His profile made him look dignified, a simple businessman. The sunglasses obscured his eyes, not that Sherlock needed to look into them to know there was no real human staring back at him.

No, Jim Moriarty stopped being human a long time ago.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but watched as Jim's hand gripped his cane tightly in one fist, so Sherlock didn't speak at all. Jim held up one finger to his lips, still not turning his head to look at Sherlock.

"This is my favorite part," Jim said looking down into the crowd. He pressed a button and the area where he and Sherlock and his bodyguards were became encased with glass walls. And then vapor began filling the crowd. They roared, cheered, laughed and went fucking crazy as the Felicity entered their lungs.

Sherlock knew what it meant, it was calling Hazing. Soon the happy high would wear off and the violent face of Felicity would take over. The crowd starting kissing each other, touching, groping, until it wasn't enough and they started beating each other and biting and trying to tear each other apart.

Sherlock grimaced and looked away hearing Moriarty chuckle darkly.

"Population control, Shezza, somebody's gotta do it. Right sweetie?" Jim said gleefully, turning his face towards Sherlock.

The Watcher knew that eventually the crowd would be mostly dead and then the Cleaners would come in, picking up body parts, throwing them into the streets, throwing them into a grinder, burying them where no one would ever find them. And Jim the Monster called it "population control". Sherlock called it murder.

It's the reason Sherlock had been investigating him when everything went wrong.

But there was no murder in Jim-Land. There was no such fucking thing. Murder implied it was illegal. And there was no law in the NLD.

Looking at Jim, Sherlock realized the man had aged. A couple new scars adorned his face, when he grinned he had a couple new silver teeth. Jim always did prefer silver over gold. He once called gold "tacky and cheap". But silver... there was something in it that made him obsessed. It was almost sexual in the way he coveted it.

"Why are you here, Shezza?" Jim asked, snapping his fingers as a drink was brought to him by a boy who couldn't be older than seventeen. Sherlock noticed the boy's bruised wrists, his dead eyed stare, the silver bracelet around his ankle signifying who he belonged to.

Jim noticed too.

"Like him? I can get you one." Jim said as he sipped his drink, making conversation about human slavery and trafficking as if he discussing the fucking weather. It made Sherlock's stomach turn.

"No thanks." He replied.

"No? Aww well, I'm gonna kill him soon anyway. It stops being fun when they stop fighting and just, ya know, lie there with those _weird_ eyes. Emotion, Shezza, that's what I get off on."

"Probably because you don't feel them."

"Yeah probably." Jim said with a shrug.

"I'm here for Felicity." Sherlock said finally answering Jim's question. The crime lord shook his head and rolled his eyes.

"And here I thought you missed me," Jim said, feigning disappointment. "That bitch always did come between us."

"Maybe you shouldn't sell it anymore." Sherlock said sarcastically.

Jim giggled.

"Oh, Shezzy, you always could make me laugh." Jim snapped his fingers again and his boy-servant was escorted out. "You two turn your backs."

Sherlock watched as his bodyguards did as they were told. Jim scooted his chair closer to Sherlock's, placing a hand on the Watcher's knee.

"You always were such a cold fish, Shezzy," Jim said huskily, his thumb making small circles. "I only wanted to take care of you."

Sherlock grunted.

"Like you take care of that boy?"

Jim rolled his eyes again and even through the sunglasses Sherlock could see it.

"Oh please they don't mean anything. Just flesh over calcium and collagen and big puffy sacks filled with blood. They're so breakable, Shezzy, but not you." Jim said his hand reaching up Sherlock's thigh.

"You didn't just come here for a quick fix and a filthy fuck from one of my girls," Jim said looking at Sherlock, looking him in the eyes. "You're... eww, are you sad?"

Jim snatched his hand away and wiped it off.

"Jesus, Shez, I thought you came here to _finally_ fuck me sideways and three ways from Sunday but no you're... you're suicidal and I'm sorry but that's _such_ a turn-off for a girl. Now you're making me all... guilty."

Jim raised his drink to his lips once more.

"So you won't sell to me?" Sherlock asked, trying not to sound desperate.

"You already got some, obviously. One of my competitors? I'm hurt, Shezza, really hurt." And the strange thing was, Jim did sound genuinely hurt. He liked his loyal customers and Sherlock had only ever bought from him. And now one of his favorite's had gone to someone else, leaving Jim with sloppy seconds.

"It was a small dose, nothing that would last. I still came here, didn't I?" Sherlock said, he looked back down at the crowd. The dance floor covered in blood and carnage. The Cleaners were already getting to work.

Yes, it's good thing Sherlock had already made himself throw up.

Jim groaned loudly and stomped a foot.

"Fine. But I want something of course." Jim said and he removed his sunglasses, the glass eye looked awkwardly in another direction.

"Name it." Sherlock said ready to barter.

"Fuck-"

"-No- _ope._ Next."

Jim sighed.

"Blowjob?"

"Be serious."

"I'm always serious when I flirt, Shezza."

"How much would I get for the second?" Sherlock asked and Jim actually looked surprised.

"You'd be playing Russian Roulette with every chamber full." Jim said quietly, a dark look of delight passing over his features.

Sherlock thought for a moment, time slowing down once more. Was it worth it? Selling himself for a fix? He thought about Molly, the way she had looked so terrified and angry at him. The gentle caress of her small hands on his body.

One seedy affair and he'd have what he wanted. Death in a syringe. A game, it was all a game. Sherlock could feel the germs that thrived in this decrepit little underworld making a home on and inside his flesh. He could feel every cell in his body powering down.

And for some reason, Mrs. Harrison's face appeared, concealed by smoke...

 _GUILTY..._

"I-"

Sherlock didn't get to finish his sentence because before he knew it the glass shield protecting himself and Moriarty and his goons had shattered, a gas that was not Felicity crept in. Jim shrieked and his guards immediately latched onto him, pulling him away to some secret door in the wall.

The Watcher felt himself falling again, the shock of the glass shattering had ripped through his eardrums horribly and left him with a head splitting ringing. He was pirouetting again. This time he wasn't just falling the whole world was. It was dropping out of time and reality. It was imploding in on itself.

Sherlock saw the end of the world; a great big boom, muffled by space, swallowed by the darkness and vacuum. He watched from high above all the stupid little people as they screamed at him to save them. He saw Molly standing on a mountain range he must have seen in pictures, for he had never been to a real mountain before.

Molly was dressed in red like the widows of Watchers but her elegant dress was torn, stained with blood, it was immense between her legs. Her head was shaved and her eyes wept but she smiled. The wall of fire was coming for her, like a red tsunami.

 _No, come with me, come with me, Molly! I can save you!_ He tried to yell to her but his voice was so far away. And she was fading closer to the wall.

 _You live alone or we die together, Sherlock,_ dream Molly said warmly, her voice echoing across the mountain range and down into a deep barren valley.

But Sherlock didn't want to die and he didn't want to leave dream Molly to her fiery fate. He tried running to her but he had no body. He was only a mind, floating in the ether with nothing to grab onto.

 _Molly, please,_ he cried, he wept, he sobbed he choked on his own desperation. Finally he tried reaching for her again and she held out her own dainty little pale hand.

They were so close, so close they could almost touch.

And that's when Sherlock actually _looked_ at his hands. They weren't his. They were made of metal with false flesh stretched clumsily over them. The little blinking lights flashing underneath the thin layers. He didn't understand.

Then he looked to Molly again whose face now looked like Janine.

 _You're not a man, Sherlock Holmes, you'll never be a man!_ She shouted at him. He blinked and when he opened his eyes again she was holding a dead baby by the leg upside down and letting herself fall backwards into a pool of sharks. He felt himself wanting to retch again.

 _It's not real, it's not real, it's... it's-_

"SHERLOCK!" He felt a hand slap his face repeatedly. He groaned and tried to move but someone held him down. He couldn't see. Whatever knockout drug he had been hit with was highly effective. He was having a harder time coming out of this than Felicity.

"Come on, mate, come on," he heard the voice say again and then himself being dragged somewhere. His foot caught on something and the person dragging him gave a hard tug and Sherlock's shoe came free and he was dragged once more.

Finally after what felt like an eternity he was leaned against a wall and something cold was pushed into his hand.

"Drink this." The voice said, a man's. He gripped the cold object and brought it to his lips and drank the whole bottle of water, like a dying man.

"Good, good. Now relax and try not to make any noise." The man said, Sherlock felt his sleeve being rolled up and his vision cleared long enough for him to make out that it was John Watson beside him. He watched as the Captain took out a syringe of amber fluid and injected it into Sherlock arm.

 _Felicity antidote,_ Sherlock thought almost wishing it had been more of the drug.

 _Let me die,_ he thought hoping John could read his mind knowing full well the other man couldn't. _Remember, Sherlock? You don't want to die._

John had had a hell of a time trying to find Sherlock. He had searched all of the haunts Mycroft had told him about. He had shaken down and roughed up and beaten all of the junkies, drug dealers and scumbags that had tried to stand in his way. He was a one man army and after ten hours in the Neon Lights District word spread of a man willing to break bone and tear flesh to find the man he was looking for.

After a lot of intimidation, threats and following through with many of them, John Watson was directed to the club Bliss owned by the most powerful crime lord in the NLD. But John had dealt with terrorists, mutineers, spies, drug dealers and battered rebel armies, he wasn't afraid of one man.

John could tell that Sherlock was starting to come to. The man looked terrible. He smelt awful and he was shaking so bad he could barely hold the water bottle steady as he drank the whole thing. He felt tremendous pity for Sherlock in that moment. What had sent him over the edge? There had to have been something that triggered it.

 _Clean five years and then you go and do this, why?_ John thought to himself.

He secured the shack they were hiding out in. He listened over a radio that the bad guys were looking for them. He consulted his tablet map. They were a mile away from the first pick-up zone. He had two hours to get them there. If they didn't make it they were on their own with the second getaway car which was five miles away.

 _I suppose air support is out of the question?_ John thought stubbornly.

John checked on Sherlock again and the man was definitely awake but just staring off into nothing. John knew he had to get him talking and moving. The antidote was working but not fast enough. And he was dehydrated, hungry and running on most likely no sleep.

"Sherlock?" John asked, shaking his foot a little. Sherlock blinked a couple times and tears fell from his eyes.

"Thank you." Sherlock said weakly. The soldier smiled and nodded.

"You're welcome."

"Huh. This isn't the first I've been here. I assume Mycroft sent you?"

"Yeah."

"Couldn't come himself?"

"No, but I can't blame him."

Sherlock nodded slowly, ashamed that this was all happening again. Someone coming to save his ass. Only this time it wasn't his big brother and his mentor. It was a man who barely knew him.

John Watson, kicking down doors and leaving a trail of broken bodies and noses behind him. Sherlock knew there had been a reason he liked him. And he couldn't help but feel flattered.

"How much time have we got?" Sherlock asked standing slowly, with John's help.

"Two hours until the first pick-up leaves, a mile away."

"I assume if we miss it there's a second that's further?"

"Yeah."

"Well, let's not miss it."

Sherlock and John missed it of course. The tire marks felt like the bars of cell closing, banging shut. Cutting them off from civilization. And John wasn't sure how much farther Sherlock could go. The man was half out of his mind; mumbling things that were out of the ordinary and forgetting them almost immediately.

He kept saying a name... something that sounded Lolly Looper but John couldn't be sure if it was a name or something else entirely.

 _What did that bastard do to you?_ John thought as he helped Sherlock along.

They had to rest again, eventually. Taking shelter in an empty house that John cleared before bringing Sherlock in.

The Watcher was fading, John kept having to slap him awake. He didn't want to have to use the single shot of adrenaline he had, not yet anyway. John needed rest himself.

The two men, beaten and worn out, their muscles aching and burning, hunger setting in, rested in the burnt out shack that at one time had been someone's home. Their journey would have been shorter if they were anywhere else. But they had to be stealthy and avoid unwanted attention so everything was slow going.

The NLD had once been sectors 15-20. But after the Fall and the resistance takeover they were just a shell. A depressing relic of the past. Great houses home to greater families had once been the envy of all other sectors. Families had been murdered as tyrants, executed in full view of a roaring crowd.

Sherlock's family had barely gotten out alive. The Fall had happened when he was a small boy. The ancient family home of Musgrave had been taken and burned to the ground, his parents had been spirited away by Watchers loyal to the family to their private estate in another sector.

It was the first time Sherlock had ever encountered Watchers before and he owed them his life. He had sworn to become one and his father without question or hesitation sent him away to become one of the men who had saved his life and his family.

 _Stupid little boy,_ Sherlock thought sadly as he laid down on the dirty floor of the house.

The night the rebels came for them had been a nightmare he had fought for decades. They came with fire, they came with guns, they came with bottles shattering against the windows. But that's not why Sherlock woke up screaming in the middle of the night for years afterward.

 _Redbeard..._

" _We can't take the bloody dog with us!"_ He had heard his parents shouting as the angry mob descended upon the lawn of his ancestral home. Mycroft and Sherlock hid inside a closet, the lithe Irish Setter at their side, keeping watch over his charge.

 _Loyal to the end..._

" _Then be a damn man and do something!"_ His mother ordered his father, she was probably cradling Pride and Joy tightly when she should have been cradling Sherlock and comforting Mycroft.

Footsteps came and then the door to the closet burst open and without a word Sherlock's father grabbed Redbeard by the collar and-

"Sherlock?" John's voice distracted Sherlock from the memory, it was a kindness not an interruption.

"Hmm?" Sherlock grumbled. John reached down and helped the other man to his feet.

"We're not far now, come on, mate." John said leaning Sherlock against himself.

The route John took them wasn't crowded but they were starting to draw attention, even down all the back alleys and side stepping through abandoned buildings and old underground tunnels, people saw them. And people talked, and what those people said was "the asshole who beat the shit out of us is weak, let's get him!"

"Someone's following us." John told Sherlock without glancing over his shoulder.

"I know. Have been for some time." Sherlock replied quietly.

"Little further." John promised.

The people following them were in a group of five by John's count and the sound of the footsteps.

 _I can take three maybe four,_ John thought. He felt his heart rate spike but he remained calm, never going too fast otherwise they would start chasing them and he couldn't afford to attempt a run with Sherlock so weak.

"Hey!" A voice shouted.

 _Shit,_ John thought.

He kept walking though, limping along carrying Sherlock, the small group kept following.

 _A hundred feet, maybe, and some change,_ he kept telling himself. It made things easier, considering they were further than two hundred feet. But it was an encouraging lie.

"Hey!" The voice said again.

"The adrenaline in your left pocket, give it to me," Sherlock whispered.

John subtly slipped his free hand into his pocket and handed it off to Sherlock.

"We can't avoid them forever." Sherlock told him and John knew he was right.

"I can-"

"No. You're tired. You've done enough."

"You're half dead."

"You have no idea what I'm capable of John."

Their eyes lingered on one another. But John nodded, trusting Sherlock. He didn't know why he did but he let the man stand on his own.

Finally the two men turned to face their admirers.

Yes, a group of five. One woman, four men.

Mohawk, Black-Eye, Teeth, Tattoo and Tall- that's what John was calling them anyway. He didn't a damn what their real names were.

"Not from 'round here, are ya?" Mohawk said, gesturing with a blunt blade that looked like it had been carved out of a rusty pipe.

 _Fucking junkies,_ John thought then remembered who he had been carrying.

Sherlock injected the needle into his leg and immediately stood straight up gasping for breath.

"What ya got there?" Teeth the woman said, sniffing back snot.

"We're on our way out. Don't want any trouble." John said putting his hands up in a gesture of peace.

"Nah mate, ya don't leave the NLD." Mohawk said through thick crooked teeth.

"Really? Because I would really like to." Sherlock said snarkily.

The group of degenerate junkies didn't seem to like his tone.

"Wanna fight?" Tattoo said pulling out a knife and the others did too, various back alley abortion tools.

"Fuck yeah." Sherlock said pulling off his coat.

"Sherlock-" John tried and failed.

"Come on you fucking pussy." Sherlock said and stepped forward. Mohawk grinned and took a step forward.

"Ya got a death wish you do." Mohawk said smirking.

"You've no idea."

Mohawk ran at Sherlock but was stopped dead, quite literally, when the Watcher took out a gun and put a bullet in the junkie's head. Time seemed to slow from the moment the bullet left the chamber to the instant it struck the junkie in the forehead.

Gunsmoke filled the air, morphing Sherlock into some sort of demon as the neon lights painted his face every color imaginable.

Mohawk dropped hard onto the cement, his skull and brain spraying across his friend's faces.

Sherlock looked at the others.

"Anyone else?" He asked and they seemed to step back a little but he advanced towards them. "Oh come on give me a chance!" He whined.

Teeth tossed a knife at him quickly which he dodged and planted a bullet in her left side. Before she could scream he let loose another round into Black-Eye's chest.

"You all suck really bad at trying to kill me." Sherlock mocked.

Teeth screamed in pain as her blood gushed out of her wound. Her friends took off, leaving her behind.

Sherlock approached her and stood over her with the gun pointed at her head. She reached a frightened hand up, as if it would protect her.

"Stop sniffling, it would hardly impede the flight of a bullet pulling apart your face." Sherlock ordered but the woman only cried harder.

John slowly approached Sherlock, quite surprised at seeing Sherlock in action. He knew Watchers were good but- it was like the man had barely moved.

"Please! I'll do anything." Teeth whimpered.

Sherlock pressed a foot into her wound and she screamed even louder.

"I wounded you, you won't die unless I want you to. Now answer some questions," Sherlock threatened and she tried pushing his foot off her but he was stronger.

"Sherlock-" John tried but the other man couldn't be reached. His Watcher side had taken over, the beast was in control now.

"Who ordered the hit on five Watchers?" Sherlock demanded and John paused.

 _What? That case was closed,_ he thought quickly. He glanced over his shoulder, looking in both directions, checking to see if anyone was watching them. If there were anymore gangs hanging about.

"I don't know-"

"Yes you do don't lie to me. Who ordered the hit?" Sherlock asked, pressing his foot harder into her side.

"Please, he'll kill me!" She begged.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, knelt down, this time with his knee gouging her wound and pressing the barrel of the gun into her sweaty forehead.

"What do you think I plan on doing?" He said with an insane smirk. "Come on, come on I don't have all night this adrenaline is going to wear off and my finger is getting very, _very_ itchy."

"Someone contacted the Boss," Teeth said quickly. "Ya know which Boss I mean."

Sherlock nodded.

"Said they needed it wrapped up pretty, in a bow. Needed to look genuine. He fixed it. Said it was a wake up!" Teeth said but nothing she was saying made any sense to John.

However, Sherlock seemed to understand.

"Wake up who?" He asked and she cried harder.

"Please. That's it! That's all I know. Please, kill me-"

Sherlock pulled the trigger.

"Jesus!" John shouted as her head came apart in front of his eyes. Sherlock finally handed him back the gun which John took quickly before punching the Watcher in the face.

But Sherlock's drug hadn't worn off and neither had his bloodlust. The two men grappled in the puddle ridden street, knocking into abandoned cars and setting off alarms.

"You fuck!" John shouted and Sherlock head butted John before pinning him to the ground.

"John, get a fucking hold of yourself!" Sherlock yelled at him. John held perfectly still, trying to get ahold of his breathing and his anger.

"Why... why did you-"

"Do you have any idea what her people would do to her if she came back?"

John slowly nodded.

"Then you know what I did was a mercy." Sherlock said sternly before releasing the soldier. He held out his hand and begrudgingly John took it.

John knew Sherlock was right. He had seen first hand what people in the NLD did to each other for squealing. Snitches didn't get stitches in a place like this. They just tore them apart limb from limb.

"Not far now." John assured him after they had been walking in silence.

By the time they got to the car the drug had worn off. John placed him in the backseat where Sherlock curled onto his side and fell asleep.

John had never been so happy to be inside a car before.

They had been driving for an hour before Sherlock finally spoke again,

"Don't take me to my brother."

"Sherlock he'll want to see you."

"No. Please, John, not him."

"Where do you want me to take you?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment before rolling over with a hard groan.

"Take me home, John."

John didn't ask Sherlock on the way back to the city why Sherlock was asking some junkie about a case he thought had been considered closed. A case closed by none other than Sherlock Holmes himself, head of the POI.

It nagged at John but he knew now wasn't the best time to ask. He'd wait, he would make his own deductions.

They pulled up to Holmes Manor a little after 2:30 AM. John helped him inside.

Sherlock was standing on his own two feet now.

"You're still welcome to come to dinner this weekend." Sherlock said nonchalantly as if John hadn't just dragged his ass halfway across the goddamn Neon Lights District.

A place John had promised he would never go back.

 _And yet you did,_ that voice told him.

John couldn't help but laugh a little, trying to keep his voice down knowing there were people still sleeping in the house.

"Yeah, sure," John said and he finally realized how tired he was. He yawned and rubbed his face.

"Get some sleep, Captain." Sherlock said as he began walking towards what looked like a back staircase but John didn't pay it any mind.

"Oh, and John," Sherlock called through the darkness, his voice reverberating through the still house. John turned and face the voice.

"Thank you." Sherlock said and all John heard after that were the sounds of footsteps going up a staircase.

John smiled to himself and exited the house.

When John returned home he didn't think of Lolly Looper, he didn't think of the dead junkies or why Sherlock was asking questions about a closed case, he didn't think of Mycroft Holmes or Anthea.

John fell asleep peacefully, thinking about _her._

X

Molly Hooper woke with a start and realized quite quickly she wasn't alone. She recognized _his_ smell. She tensed and felt her eyes begin to water. Since yesterday she had practiced what she would say to him. She would tell him to never touch her again, she would insult him and call him a lunatic.

And when she sat up to wake him she stopped and all anger was washed away. He was injured, badly. His face was bruised, his cheek cut from where she had scratched him and his clothes were a mess. She touched his forehead and he groaned. His skin was so pale as the sun began to rise, the sky turning a shade of orange and pink.

 _What happened to him?_ Molly thought worriedly.

Putting all her anger aside she set about examining him. Her father had taught her more than a thing or two about bandaging someone up. He had come home often enough with his fair share of wounds and Molly had always played nurse.

" _Fix me up, darling, make daddy pretty again."_ He would say with a bloody lip or swollen eye. And she would giggle and kiss his cheek, thinking in a childish way that it was all a game.

Molly ran her fingers over his cheekbone and down his chin.

When his eyes opened slowly and gazed up at her she didn't remove her hand. She saw his jaw clench and his eyes watered. He tried looking away as the tears rolled down his cheek and onto her hand but Molly firmly held him in place and shook her head.

"Never again." She told him and he nodded. "Good. Now, sit up."

Molly went about undressing him until he was down to his underwear. He sat on the edge of her bed and she fixed him up. His ribs were badly bruised and there were cuts on his hands.

 _He looks like he picked a fight with God,_ Molly thought. _Or God picked a fight with the Devil..._

Molly washed dried blood off his hands and was thankful none of the wounds were very deep. She had seen him like this once before, very briefly. Another early morning for her it had been and a late night for him. He had stumbled in and had needed Mrs. Hudson and the butler to help him up the stairs.

But now there was no Mrs. Hudson or butler.

It was only she and him.

 _How I wish it could always be,_ she thought sadly.

After a brief sponge bath that took place on her floor with just a small bowl of water she dried him with one of her shirts. It wasn't much but she couldn't bring him to the servant's washroom.

"You need to sleep." Molly told him. He shrugged, painfully it looked like.

"I need to work."

Sherlock tried standing but Molly pushed him back down on the bed. She was half standing, half kneeling. She straddled one thigh and her hands ran over his chest, bruised and scarred from whatever he did for a living. She traced each scar with her fingertip lightly. He sucked in a breath and placed his hands on her hips gently, barely touching her at all.

"I thought you said 'never again'?" Sherlock said quietly. Molly met his gaze and leaned down and kissed him.

The pill had worked and she was feeling much better.

And she hated that he could make her forgive him so easily.

Sherlock didn't respond immediately and by the time he did she was already pulling away, removing her shirt, standing again to take off her shorts and underwear.

He remained still on the bed.

Sherlock was shocked. He thought he had frightened her away, he had needed to frighten her. But now here she was, wanting him, offering herself to him-

 _No, she's doing something else..._

Molly gripped his face in her hands and kissed him with a little more passion, tracing his lips with her tongue. He willingly parted his lips for her as she kissed him deeply. His hands running up her sides.

Although the next thing he knew she gripped his chin in her hand and pulled back, the same hand traveling down to land in the center of his chest, pushing him flat on his back.

 _Is she... taking_ me _?_ He thought and the idea thrilled him.

Molly straddled his lap once more; friendship, loyalty, honesty could all be fucking damned. She wanted him. She needed him, he was essential. She had missed him and hated him and had wanted every opportunity to throw him out on his ass. But she couldn't and she wouldn't.

Molly could imagine herself doing that to him vividly, but when the moment came to conduct such a thing she simply could do nothing but _be there_ for him.

Something had awakened inside her when she woke up to find him bloodied and bruised in his bed. Something deep she hadn't felt before when she had been near him.

Even when she wanted him to take her, _he_ had been in control. He had had all the power; making her feel smaller than she was, weaker than she was. Now _he_ was the weak one, the one in need of tenderness. She planned on showing him all the tenderness she was capable of.

It was in this tenderness that would be her greatest rebellion.

Molly let her lips hover over his, he tried leaning up to kiss her but she pulled away only a couple of inches not allowing him any closer. His hands gripped her tightly before relaxing and a tingling thrill shot through her whole body, landing directly in her core.

 _Submit,_ she thought lustfully in her head to him. She reached down and grasped his wrists in her little hands and pushed them above his head, laying her arms flat against his before finally kissing him fully on the mouth, giving him what he desired.

And Sherlock did submit to her. He let her kiss him any way she wanted, roughly, hard, whimsically, slowly, desperately... whatever she wanted.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock gave up control to, not just another person, but a woman. Since his mother he had vowed he would never let that happen again, he would never let himself be at the mercy of a woman.

But Molly Hooper was different from every woman he had ever met. She didn't put on airs. She didn't pretend to be something she wasn't.

Molly felt more liberated than she ever had before, emancipated from a former self. She wasn't ashamed of her body, she wasn't ashamed of the heat and wetness that pulsed between her legs. She wasn't ashamed of her personal, primal appetite for him.

Molly pulled away and kissed his neck and chest, licking his nipple as he had done to her and he groaned loudly. She released his wrists and he ran his hands down her sides before their mouths met again in what could hardly be described as a true kiss. He sat up and pulled her flush against his chest as their hips moved in sync with one another.

" _Fuck_ , Molly," he whispered into her ear as he kissed and licked down her mouth. Molly moaned sweetly in reply. She felt his cock gliding smoothly along her cunt, it felt so good. So right, so perfect.

But not enough.

"I need you, Molly," Sherlock seemed to beg.

Molly continued moving her hips and her womanhood along his hard shaft before remembering what Dr. Lynn had said. She stopped her movements and Sherlock appeared concerned.

"Wait, I need to tell you something," she said and he listened, however he looked strained while doing so. "I... I had to go to the doctor- I'm fine. But he knew I had been... well, he could tell I'd had intercourse. He said I need to start using these things called condoms even if I can't get pregnant and well you need to wear and if you don't know how or what it is I can't do this." Her words tumbled out of her mouth like water spewing from a hose.

And yet there was confidence in her voice he hadn't heard before.

Sherlock felt like a fool. He had been careless. He had been clean for five years and knew he was clean now but that didn't mean anything. It was smarter to be safe even if he didn't have anything and even if she couldn't get pregnant.

"I'm sorry, Molly," Sherlock said to her sincerely. "You're right. I'm fucking idiot."

"Yes, yes you are." Molly agreed and he smiled at her. "So, will you do it?"

Sherlock nodded and she reached into a little box under her bed and handed him one. He told her to watch him put it on so she knew how. It was strange and slightly humorous just watching him put it on and staring at his... well, he called it "cock".

Holding her gently in his lap, her legs still wrapped around his waist, he let her continue.

Kissing him again with increased vigor that he had agreed to put the condom on. He held tightly to her like a life jacket as she raised her hips and with a hand guided him into her.

Sliding all the way down on him with a single push, her head fell back briefly. He kept his hands on her hips, wanting her to set the pace in her own time. But she took one of his hands in her own and brought it up to her breast encouraging him to touch her.

"Fuck." He whimpered as she began riding him slowly, their chests pressed together once more.

After a short time Molly increased her speed and the force of her thrusts. Sherlock began panting and he leaned in to take one of her hard nipples into his mouth. Molly moaned as his tongue ran over it and how he nipped it gently with his teeth.

She felt him beginning to take control again but she refused to relinquish.

 _No, no,_ she thought. She did what she had to do.

Molly placed her hand on his collarbone and with all her strength shoved him back against the mattress. Surprise was one word for the look on his face. She remembered quickly he had been injured and to make up for her force she rubbed his chest with the palm of her hand, however it remained firmly pressed into his sternum, as if to say, "don't you dare move".

Sherlock felt a twinge of desire shoot them him at her power. She had been awakened and now she was realizing that strength.

A darkness he had never seen before in her took shape as _she_ fucked _him_. And Christ, it was intoxicating. He simply let his hands rest on her thighs as she took what she wanted from him, raising his hips to meet her halfway.

"Oh, oh..." She whimpered and stopped. Sherlock tried to sit up but she held him down once more. "No. No- _oh god_ \- don't, don't try it." She warned him.

Sherlock groaned in frustration. He was torn. He was relishing in her power but desiring to fuck her raw as he had before, the animal in him whining and howling at his submission. But she wouldn't relent.

Molly continued once more, sliding up and down his shaft, leaning down to kiss him. She leaned over his chest to hold down his wrists again.

"Molly, please," He begged and she couldn't help but smile.

"What, Sir? What can I do?" She whispered in a sweet little voice.

Molly felt she was close to giving in to him.

"I need you." He moaned as she kissed his neck in warm and wet open mouthed kisses.

"You have me." She replied, stilling her hips, knowing she could outlast him already.

" _No_. I need to-"

" _Fuck_ me." She finished and ordered.

Their eyes locking he didn't hesitate when he overpowered her and wrapped an arm around her waist and flipped her onto her back, knocking the air out of her chest, this time her wrists were pinned down.

And his animal burst from it's cage.

Sherlock's hips pounded into hers, damn the pain he felt. He fucked her brutally and gently all at once. Slow, hard thrusts that caused her to gasp every time. He pressed her right leg up higher than the other until it was slung over his shoulder and he was able to go deep, so much deeper.

"Oh yes, so good." She whimpered fiercely. "Take me, take me."

Sherlock was emboldened by her words. So unlike her and yet they had been waiting just below the surface to come out.

Snapping his hips harder, his cock hit every inch inside of her. Slow, deep, penetrating.

"Did you need this?" He whispered to her and she nodded.

"Did you?" She replied and his response was another wet kiss. When he pulled away their mouths were still inches apart and he felt his cock twitch inside her when he saw she bit her lip.

"Fuck me, Sir, fuck me, _fuck me..._ "

Molly's voice faded away as he removed her leg from his shoulder, lying it flat on the bed with her knee curved.

And that fantasy, that small, insignificant image of Molly's belly swelling with his child formed again. It seemed to power his thrusts like a battery.

He never wanted to stop as he felt his end nearing.

Slipping a hand between them, he thumbed her clit and she clenched her teeth hard as the pleasure overwhelmed her little body. He felt like an ancient man branding his woman. The thought was so utterly disgusting and wrong. But she was his, she would _always_ be his.

Molly was alter-ego, the person he wished he could. She was his friend, the kind he longed to be. She was silent companion, the girl on the staircase, the shadow on the wall. His sweet, humble little paramour.

 _Tell her, say it!_ His mind wailed at him.

 _I love you,_ she thought as she came, clutching him to her body, wishing they could meld into one person so that she could always be with him.

" _Damn, fuck_." He groaned hard into her neck as he felt his release take hold of him like the jaws of life.

Neither remembered what happened next. Too caught up in the bliss and emotion and utter satisfaction, they simply fell into a deep slumber.

Molly unaware of the trauma he had inflicted upon himself earlier and Sherlock unaware of the irony that was life and the little tricks it liked to play when one was fast asleep without a care in the world.

For only if they knew what lies they had been told. What lies great men in his high places tell their people. What lies fathers tell their daughters to keep them safe.

If only, if only...


	12. CHAPTER ELEVEN: The Better Man

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Better Man

 _If only..._

Sherlock Holmes was not a man given to fanciful whimsy. However, with Molly Hooper nestled beside him for warmth in her bed, in her room, in their own little world away from reality, he daydreamed.

In his daydream they were not confined to the restrictions and laws made by a man who didn't even follow them.

No, in his daydream they had a little house on the beach, he tended to his bees, Redbeard at his side. And she toiled in a garden or collecting seashells that were swept up onto the shore.

Together, in this dream, they walked barefoot in the sand and Sherlock would breathe in the salty, ocean air.

But Sherlock Holmes had never seen the ocean before, had never felt sand beneath his feet, had never held a seashell in his palm and marveled at it.

And yet with Molly he could picture it all so clearly as if they had already lived it in another life.

 _Said it was a wakeup..._

The junkie he had killed, her words came back to him, slapping him back to the cold reality he had so easily slipped away from.

 _Who needed waking up?_ Sherlock couldn't help but think.

And something strange inside him told him he already knew the answer to that.

 _What was so important that required the murder of five senior Watchers?_

Molly shifted closer to him and he let himself return to her mentally. He cupped her cheek and kissed her forehead.

"It's morning, isn't it?" She said with her eyes still closed, her voice husky from sleep. Sherlock leaned in closer and kissed down her cheeks until his lips landed over her heart. She slid her fingers into his hair and sighed, cradling him closer.

"No, it's still night. Let's go back to bed." He said and she laughed quietly. He liked hearing her laugh, it didn't happen often that he was the cause of it.

 _Don't think about her tears, you're with her now, that's what matters,_ he told himself.

With a heavy sigh that felt like he was inhaling a burden rather than exhaling one, he kissed her cheek one last time before sitting up. The sun was indeed rising. He had time to get to his bedroom without the other servants noticing him.

Molly sat up, the sheet falling down to her waist, no shame was upon her face.

"When will I see you again?" She asked him bravely. Sherlock buttoned his bloodied shirt, most likely some blood from the junkie's mixed with his own.

"As soon as I can." He promised and he finished dressing, Molly watching him the whole time. He felt free when he was with her but it was a feeling he was still getting used to.

No one had ever watched him dress before. But he found that he liked her watching him and wanted to always wake up like this.

For a moment, Sherlock tried to remind himself that he must be cold. But he couldn't bring himself to do it.

 _To hell with it, she's worth more than that,_ he thought.

Kissing her one last time he departed begrudgingly from her room.

Only to come face to face with Mrs-Fucking-Hudson.

Arms crossed, one finger lightly tapping the crook of her elbow, she gazed at him in the only way he should be. His heart didn't exactly speed up, but it nearly shot out of his chest, going from twenty to a hundred in a matter of seconds.

Naturally, his first thought was to kill her quickly and quietly but of course Sherlock Holmes couldn't kill a woman who had practically raised him. Well, raised him while he was still an adult.

"Sherlock Holmes," Mrs. Hudson began in a voice that made Sherlock shrink to the age of ten. "I am very, _very, very_ disappointed in you."

Yes, there it was! He knew that was coming.

Hanging his head, unable to make eye contact, he tried to think of an excuse.

However none came because there was no excuse this woman with the eyes of an owl would believe.

The woman was many things but stupid and ignorant she certainly was not.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" She demanded, remaining as still as a statue but ready to come alive with her frail fists of fury.

"I...I'm sorry." Was all he could come up with.

Yes, back to the scared little boy he had been when he had been caught doing something he shouldn't. Or even just caught _being_ a little boy.

Before the Watcher Institute beat it out of him on Mars.

Looking down at the floor, he heard Mrs. Hudson move coming to stand directly in front of him. He felt her hands take his shoulders and he finally met her penetrating gaze.

The lines on her face were like a map, like the pages of an old book, telling a striking story and leading him to a place that only be described as home.

"Sherlock Holmes," she began again, "I have always been loyal and faithful to you for what you did for me. This secret, like others, I shall carry to my grave. But you must make a choice: endanger that girl and yourself or risk losing all you hold most dear."

With that she leaned up and kissed his cheek before slowly and silently disappearing down the corridor, leaving Sherlock to ponder not just his future but Molly's as well.

X

Saturday, the evening John would spend with Sherlock and his wife, Janine.

In an odd way John was nervous. He and Sherlock had spent the remainder of the week with Irene going over cases, solving the bulk and leaving Irene to do the rest of the dangerous leg work. Sherlock didn't seem as interested in throwing himself into danger as he had the first time they met.

Perhaps the whole NLD incident had taught the Watcher a thing or two. But while Sherlock was onto new cases, John hadn't been idle. He had been making his own deductions, his own subtle inquiries. He had updated Mycroft who seemed quite placid in his relief that Sherlock was okay.

But of course if Mycroft Holmes had jumped up and down squealing and crying John would have been sure he was in some sort of dream.

Saturday. Dinner, food, chairs and sitting with Sherlock and his _wife_. Sherlock being married was still such a queer and foreign concept for John to wrap his head around. He wondered if she was as murderous as Mrs. Harrison and the others.

What John pictured and who he actually met were two very different people.

Janine Holmes was very warm and very welcoming. She smiled pleasantly at him and kissed his cheek, showing him around the house and giving him a history lesson. The tour was spectacular.

Holmes Manor was four stories tall with a great hall and staircase that seemed to go and on.

"It's been kept almost exactly as Sherlock's parents left it." She said politely and rather proudly as she showed John their portrait, an empty space hanging near it.

When John asked what the empty space was for she told him it was for when _they_ had a family, until then the space remained empty. John couldn't help but feel pity for Janine.

Five years of a childless marriage was abnormal, even John knew that.

Eventually Sherlock joined them, looking healthy and sober and late as usual. The two men exchanged a knowing look; one that said "I've seen you at your worst and it's okay".

"Are you married, John?" Janine asked during dinner. John cleared his throat which Sherlock immediately took notice of and the Captain kicked himself for showing his tell.

"Uh, no, no. Trying to get the retirement and transfer."

"How do you do that?"

John was about to answer when Sherlock raised his hand.

"Please, Janine, Captain Watson doesn't need to bore you with those details."

Anyone else would have been offended, in a way John was, but Janine simply nodded her head and smiled and went on cutting her steak. However, John noticed the small amount of pressure change in the way she cut into the red meat, as if all her tension was in the knife...

John felt, more than a little, uncomfortable by the whole affair.

It was bizarre seeing Sherlock interact with his wife; first of all, they didn't act married at all. Not in the way John's parents had. John remembers fondly his parents being quite fond of each other, touching and holding hands.

 _Affection..._

There was no devotion with Sherlock and Janine, no closeness. As if sentiment was completely off the table. They hardly looked at one another.

During John's stay he got an up close and personal look at what life must have been like for those women who had conspired to have their husbands murdered. He could picture Janine in the red mourning garb now... Sherlock's grave nothing more than a relief rather than a loss.

"Do you have hobbies, John?" Janine asked, and she picked her glass of water up and drank daintily from it. Her actions seemed almost as practiced as Irene's, albeit more human.

"I'm a bit of a bore, honestly." John replied with a smile.

"But he comes in quite handy." Sherlock assured Janine.

John glanced around the dining room. The china was old but hadn't been used much, they weren't normally hosts then. The room was filled with tapestries and heirlooms, portraits adorned the walls and a family tree had been painted into the wall paper.

"You've lived here your whole life?" John asked Sherlock. The servants came and cleared the table for dessert.

John immediately took notice of the sweet looking strawberry blonde maid as she entered and exited the room, looking only briefly with his eyes as he made conversation.

" _No_ ," Sherlock replied, a little emphasis put on the word than seemed unnecessary which caught John's attention, and after a moment the other man began speaking again. "I lived in Sector 20 as a young boy."

Janine didn't pay it any mind but John... John stopped mid drink.

Sherlock had _lived_ during the Fall. He had lived during the Fall of Sectors 15-20 and he had lived _there_. He had lived in what was now a living hell. The hell that John himself had pulled him out of.

 _That's more than a little telling,_ John thought to himself.

"Where are you from, John?" Sherlock asked.

John felt he didn't need to answer since the Watcher already knew everything about him. But John found that this was more for Janine's benefit than anything else.

"Sector 1." John replied.

Janine gasped.

"My god." Janine couldn't help but say. John smiled kindly and shook his head.

"It wasn't so bad-"

"You poor man." Janine said pityingly and that's exactly what John had hoped to avoid.

"No. Really, it was... fine. Most of my neighbors got out, eventually in one way or another. Some even went to the colonies on Mars." He said trying to assure he wasn't some charity case.

The rest of dinner passed by rather uneventfully. John kept hoping that cute blonde maid might wisp by. He eventually had to relieve himself. Janine told him where the bathroom was and he thanked her and left the room.

John was grateful for the break. Sherlock at work was one thing, Sherlock at home with his wife and his house and food and plates and all the other things that went with it was simply too damn much.

He couldn't ever picture Janine giving her husband the love bites Sherlock so frequently had. Or maybe they had no personal chemistry and it was all sexual...

 _STOP right there!_ He berated himself, trying to wipe the image of Sherlock and Janine having ordinary, conventional passionless sex. It unnerved him even more.

As he washed his hands he splashed a little cool water on his face, drying quickly. He opened the door and someone walked into him. He caught them around the shoulders, finding them to be shorter than he.

And sure enough it was the blonde maid. Her blue dress complimented her pale skin. She almost seemed to glow in the evening light.

"I'm-I'm terribly, sorry, Sir, please forgive me." She said quickly, bowing her head, curtsying, doing all the courtesies she was conditioned to perform.

John removed one hand from her shoulder but the other remained.

"Don't apologize," he said kindly and offered her a gentle smile. Her cheeks turned red and he felt a little proud of himself.

 _Conflict of interest, she's the maid and you're the guest,_ he reminded himself before removing his other hand.

"What's your name?" John asked her and she seemed taken aback by it at first before finding her voice again.

"Molly Hooper, Sir." She said politely.

"Molly," he repeated. "That's a lovely name."

 _Why does that sound so familiar?_ He thought.

The blush returned. John couldn't help himself, she certainly was cute.

A little flirting couldn't hurt, could it?

"How do you like working here?" He asked.

"Why?" She questioned as if she were being tested.

John shrugged.

"Just curious." He answered.

"I like it. It's a place to live."

John sensed an almost defensiveness in her tone.

"There's nothing wrong with that." He said, trying to get her to relax. "Have you worked here long?"

"Five years, since my father died."

"I'm sorry." He said sincerely.

Molly's eyes watered for a moment before nodding, offering her thanks.

"You, uh," John put his hands in his pockets trying to ask in the right way. "Get any free time?"

Molly must not have understood what he was getting at.

"From time to time so I can read." She said, smiling brightly. He chuckled.

"No I mean. Well, have you got a boyfriend?"

 _Never stopped you before,_ he reminded himself.

Molly's mouth dropped open and then quickly closed, she shook her head and began fidgeting.

"I-I don't, um, I don't date. I'm not really encouraged to." Molly replied nervously.

"Why's that?" He asked curiously.

"Don't you know?"

He shook his head.

"I'm an Infertile. There's not point, is there?" She said matter of factly.

John sighed.

"Well, if it's all the same to you, if you have any free time look me up." He said. He reached into his breast pocket and handed her his card. She gaped at him.

"Emergencies only though," he said with a wink.

"John." They both turned at the sound of Sherlock's voice. Molly, still gaping, scuttled away somewhere else. John was disappointed at her absence.

Sherlock approached the other man, hiding his anger and not clenching his fists.

Instead he bottled it up and tried not to blame John. He didn't know, how could he?

"Drink?" Sherlock suggested. "Janine's gone to bed and offers her goodbyes."

The two men moved to Sherlock's study where they drank scotch and sat by a fire.

Molly came in to tend to the fire before Sherlock dismissed her.

Sherlock noted her eyes flashing to John and then to himself. He felt it then... the green eyed monster. The sonofabitch who wormed it's parasitic way into Sherlock's soul. He imagined himself throwing Molly onto the ground and mounting her, making John watch, so that the Captain would know who Molly belonged to.

 _You DO NOT own her,_ Sherlock told himself, attempting to calm down and not give himself away. John was more perceptive than he might know.

"Did you enjoy dinner?" Sherlock asked as Molly left.

"It was... enlightening." John replied.

"You didn't like it."

"The food or the dinner?"

Sherlock chuckled and so did John.

"I apologize. Janine and I aren't used to visitors. She has her hobbies and things to keep her occupied but, well, she doesn't know anything beyond what they taught her."

"And you keep her in the dark." John pointed out.

"I keep her safe. The less the wife of a Watcher knows the better. Trust me."

There was silence before John finally asked,

"Why are you looking back into the murdered Watchers case? It's closed.

"Officially."

"And unofficially?"

Sherlock took another drink from his glass.

"Unofficially it torments me." Sherlock admitted. "Something, John, something isn't right. I can feel it in my marrow."

"Like what?"

"What the junkie said confirmed my theory."

John leaned forward, wishing Sherlock would just spit it out. He didn't like suspense as a rule.

"And that would be...?"

"That they weren't murdered simply because they were terrible husbands. They weren't guilty at all, Mrs. Harrison threw that in for color. To conceal the truth even more. Don't you see?"

John shrugged, Sherlock rolled his eyes, the Watcher opened his mouth but John stopped him.

"If you say I 'see but do not observe' I'll fucking knock you out'," John warned. Sherlock snapped his mouth closed and seemed to be looking for something else to say.

"The junkie said it was planned, a wake up for someone. But who? They were targeting Watchers for a reason. They chose specific Watchers to lead us away from the real reason they were murdered." Sherlock said obviously.

"Why?"

"I don't know. I don't like not knowing. But one thing I can tell you is they were murdered to send a message to someone."

"And I suppose you don't know that either." John said with a smile.

"I can't know everything, John."

The Captain laughed, nearly choking on his scotch.

"Can I record you saying that?"

Sherlock laughed as well forgetting his jealousy and forgetting Molly and the incident yesterday morning with Mrs. Hudson.

John made things so easy. He helped him feel normal. He made him feel like he could say anything and that was the dangerous part. The Captain had proven that he could be trusted and yet Sherlock couldn't bring himself to fully rely on him.

 _Never trust a Watcher, never trust someone sent to watch a Watcher,_ his instructors had grilled into his head.

Sherlock did business in a big world but inhabited an even smaller one. He had no friends, no companions. Even his own wife was a visitor in a way. Once she conceived they would go their separate ways; cohabitating together but living alone.

"I guess we'll have to investigate quietly," John said finishing his glass.

Sherlock nodded.

"Can't let anyone else in." Sherlock said thoughtfully.

"What about Irene?"

"She's programmed never to lie but that doesn't mean she tells the whole story. She can... _omit_ certain truths."

"Do you trust her?" John asked as if he had been reading Sherlock's mind.

"Yes and no. She kills so easily."

"You don't?"

Sherlock didn't answer so John decided to change the subject.

"What's Molly's story?" John asked, assuming that talking about women was harmless enough.

Sherlock felt his jealously returning but had to remind himself that it wasn't John's fault that he was unaware of the secrets that Sherlock held. He wasn't aware of the relationship he had with Molly.

And yet the beast inside began pacing, under threat, under siege... ready to go to war.

"I can't say that I know. Infertile as far as I know. Quite honestly I don't pay attention to the staff." Sherlock said simply. John nodded.

"Would you mind if-"

"If what?" Sherlock shot out, a little more brusquely than he meant to. It gave the other man pause before continuing.

"If I asked her out. I understand I need to ask permission."

"If you like." Sherlock said coldly.

"If it's a problem-"

"Problem? Why would there be a problem? I don't know what good you think would come of it. She's a little thing after all. Quite frail. No physical attractiveness to speak of-"

"-Sherlock-"

"-small mouth, virtually no breasts. You might as well be going out with a child..."

"Sherlock-" John tried again and failed.

"-really, John, you could do much better than that little waif."

"Sir?"

Sherlock clenched his jaw when he heard Molly's little voice. He didn't turn his head and didn't give any other reaction. John cleared his throat awkwardly, looking away, looking at anything else but the glassy eyes of Molly Hooper.

 _Molly Hooper, that name..._ John thought, trying to think of anything else. The tension filled the room and he feared he might choke on it.

"Yes, Hooper?" Sherlock said calmly, still not looking at her.

"The Lady wants to know if you'll be up soon." Molly said quietly. John finally looked at her again, her eyes facing the wall, still glassy as she tried not to cry.

 _You asshole,_ John thought setting his gaze back on Sherlock.

"Tell her in a little while." Sherlock ordered and the maid quickly left the room, the door practically slamming shut behind her. John assumed there would be hell to pay for her later.

"You dick." John said and he rubbed his face.

"How was I supposed to know she was there?"

"You should apologize."

Sherlock gaped at him but didn't fight it.

The two men finished another drink before John decided he should leave and let Sherlock and Janine do... whatever it was they did. Personally, John didn't want to think about it.

They said goodnight and Sherlock ascended the staircase slowly, heavily, like it was the last thing he wanted to do.

Molly Hooper helped John with his coat.

"I'm sorry for what he said." John said kindly and the little maid only shrugged and sniffled. She had certainly had a cry when she left the study.

"I'm used to it." She replied.

John knew she didn't have to but the girl began buttoning his coat for him and he frowned before taking her little hand in his. She stilled and yet she trembled as he held her hand in his. John watched her swallow nervously before she met his gaze.

"I'd like to see you." He told her and she shook her head slowly.

"I can't."

"Please?"

Molly smiled shyly, blushing and looking away.

"It wouldn't be appropriate." She told him and he shrugged.

"Who cares?"

"I do. Others do."

"To hell with others."

Molly bit her lip and John wanted to kiss it.

"I'm sorry, Captain Watson, but I'm not free to."

"I thought you didn't have a boyfriend."

"That's not what I meant." She said sadly before sliding her hand from his.

John nodded and sighed, defeated and feeling mildly rejected but respecting her wishes all the same.

"Well, goodnight Molly Hooper." John said and he departed from the cold manor.

On his way home, John thought about Molly Hooper. He thought about her alone in that terrible house. He thought about the look on her face when she heard what Sherlock had said about her. He wanted to hold her until she didn't feel sad anymore. He wanted to kiss her and tell her how beautiful she was.

John wondered if anyone had told her she was beautiful.

 _Molly Hooper... I know I've heard that name before,_ John thought. _Maybe Sherlock mentioned her. No, he's barely looked at her twice. Why do I know that name?_

X

The sex with Janine went better this time than Sherlock had expected. He wasn't all that interested but with a little prompting it eventually culminated in a climax. Not for Janine however. No, the one time he did bring her to orgasm she had been terrified.

Afterwards, she would stand in front of the mirror in the bathroom or sit at her vanity, rubbing her belly in small circles as if she could coax a baby to life.

Sherlock felt dejected. He felt disgusted with himself because he knew his wife needed him and he only wanted Molly. He would have to make it up to her. He was only trying to disinterest John and it had, of course, blown up in his face.

In a queer way, and Sherlock was loath to admit it, he knew John would be better for Molly. He was gentler, kinder and all the things Sherlock could never be. Perhaps John would be open to Molly, allow her into his mind as well as his heart. He would be good for her, sweet, warm, devoted.

Sherlock didn't feel devoted to Molly in the ways he wanted to. He still slept with his wife, he deceived his wife, he felt he still used Molly.

His whole relationship with Molly had begun with lust and lies. An affair that could hurt them both. Was it the danger that attracted him to her? Was it love?

Sherlock had never been in love before and yet it was the only way he could describe his feelings for Molly. But he feared telling her, worrying that the moment he did there would be no coming back. Even now, after everything, if he needed to break it off with Molly he knew that it would easier. If he told her he loved her now it would be harder in the end.

Mrs. Hudson was right. Damn the old shrew, she was right.

 _You know one day you will have to break her,_ his mind told him.

But not now, not this night or the next.

 **AN: Sorry for the delay in updates! Life has been crazy, I'm in the process of moving and working full-time and yada-yada-yada, you get the gist! I want to thank you guys for being so patient. Sorry for the "filler" but I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless! 3**


	13. CHAPTER TWELVE: And I Heard as it Were

CHAPTER TWELVE

And I Heard as it Were...

Mycroft Holmes was a man of brilliance, not just intellectually, socially. Masquerading through the sea of idiotic goldfish that seemed to bleed from every corner. He was the master of his own domain, the keeper of the keys, the guardian at the gates of heaven and hell.

And yet, even _he_ answered to someone.

Cardinal Magnusson, the Reaper some called him behind his back. Mycroft simply called him Charles. The Cardinal liked being on a first name bases with all his subordinates and Mycroft was loath to call himself one.

But Mycroft considered himself half leader half follower. He only followed because that was the pecking order; a pecking order he had acclimated to long ago. And it was that pecking order that kept him and his brother alive.

If there was a devil, a true incarnation of such a being of lore, surely Cardinal Magnusson was such a spectre.

The man was aged, a burn from an assassination attempt seemed to grow out of his neck, reaching like flat, crushed fingers up to his chin.

The low hum of the _Aquitaine_ was all around them, moving in orbit but unnoticed to those who lived there.

"And how is your brother?" Magnusson asked, in his soft voice that was a deception like everything else about him.

"As well as can be expected." Mycroft replied, sipping his tea.

"It reached my ears he disappeared for some time." Magnusson said knowingly.

Mycroft nodded and shrugged.

"Undercover work, spur of the moment I'm afraid. He's always been impulsive."

Magnusson nodded, his eyes dead, his cheeks hollow, his white robes shining immaculately. He reached into his pocket and removed a blue snuff box, playing with it for a moment before opening it.

"Are you unwell?" Mycroft asked, concerned. He had learned to fake many emotions over the years, he was quite good at it.

When John Watson had reported that he had rescued Sherlock, Mycroft had to keep himself from exclaiming his happiness. He refused to be seen as human. It was better if people saw as an android, better to be less human the longer he stayed in this life.

Magnusson returned the snuff box to his pocket.

"Just a cold. This damn machine can be be drafty."

"Perhaps you need a holiday?" Mycroft suggested with a smirk.

"Mars, Astrid 1, all very tempting. But I am not a man of leisure, Mycroft." Cardinal Magnusson said and they both knew that was a lie. He was a man of many delights.

Many delights that Mycroft had had other men executed for.

It would give Mycroft great pleasure to see a bullet put in the Cardinal's head.

 _In good time,_ he reminded himself.

"Tell your brother he needs to pay me a visit. It's been years." Magnusson said smiling.

"I shall."

"How's that little wife of his? He should bring her too."

Mycroft tried his best not to hesitate. He knew what that meant.

"Of course."

"Still no children?"

"No."

"Pity. She is a very... _lush_ thing, isn't she?"

Mycroft shrugged.

"I wouldn't know. I haven't seen her since the ceremony."

"Oh, I see her a lot." Magnusson said with a smirk, and gestured with his eyes to the dozens of security camera screens behind him. Mycroft nodded.

"Of course, sir." Mycroft said, it sent a chill down his spine. He had been funneling in false security footage of his own office for years as well as Holmes Manor.

Sometimes he wondered if the Cardinal knew and was waiting to strike. Sometimes Mycroft believed the Cardinal only pretended to be intelligent.

"Well, you should away. I'm sure you're very busy." The old man said and he pressed a button and the door opened.

"Yes sir." Mycroft said rising.

"And Mycroft," Magnusson said. "I mean it, send your brother to me. I have a... surprise for him and I don't know how much longer it will be alive."

Mycroft bowed and took his leave.

The shuttle was waiting for him to take him back to earth. Mycroft despised space travel, even the simplest kind. But the Cardinal was a paranoid man, he saw himself safe in the most dangerous place of all; floating high above his little people like a god, cradled in the vacuum of space.

After the turbulence had faded Mycroft was able to get some work done. Anthea sat beside him, tapping away at her tablet.

"Did you really tell him to take a holiday?" She asked with a smile.

"I merely suggested."

"Your brother is do for another check-up." She reminded him and he sighed deeply and rubbed his face.

On earth it was only 7:30 AM, but in space, being shuttled back and forth like a fucking errand boy, he felt like he was in a whole other plain where time didn't matter.

"Yes, of course, send for him will you?" Mycroft asked tiredly, he turned off his tablet and decided to get some sleep.

In his dream Mycroft dreamt the shuttle crashed and Anthea was torn apart. He was pulled from the wreckage by his brother, only Sherlock was a little boy and not a man.

In his dream boy-Sherlock wore a necklace with an animal's teeth strung from the thick cord. And in this fantasy the little boy spoke with a mechanical voice but Mycroft couldn't hear what he was saying. The boy held his hand as they waded through water, boy-Sherlock half naked and covered in blood.

Magnusson was waiting on the other side of the water, his hands stretched out, his face kind and menacing all at once and he had no eyes. Mycroft tried to stop Sherlock from going to him, knowing what would happen. Trying to save his baby brother as he always had done.

" _Not him, don't go to him, stay with me, I'll protect you,"_ Mycroft tried to say, his voice muffled.

Little Sherlock held a finger to his own lips and ripped off the necklace and placed it in Mycroft's hand. When he looked down it had turned into the head of their Irish Setter and Mycroft simply held it, staring into the lifeless eyes of the family pet.

When he looked up again Sherlock was being carried away by Magnusson and Mycroft couldn't get his legs to work again.

Mycroft had failed his brother then and he failed him now. All was lost. He would become the next victim in the long line of the Cardinal's perversions.

But when Mycroft Holmes hurtled back towards earth it was safely and without incident. He was grateful to be awake and even more grateful to be back on solid ground. The imperial chamber that orbited this blue planet was like one giant watchful eye on the whole world.

 _Would be a mercy if the whole damn thing came crashing down on all of us,_ Mycroft thought gloomily.

X

Mr. Holmes did indeed make things up to Molly. There was no physical contact but she forgave him. The whole thing had been rather awkward. She didn't understand why first of all Captain Watson wanted to see her and why Mr. Holmes had said such terrible things about her to the Captain.

When Mr. Holmes explained it was to "put John off" Molly held her ground.

"That's no excuse." She had told him flat out and he agreed. Molly's voice was growing every day. She challenged him and forced him to apologize.

In short, she didn't take any of his shit.

It was quite refreshing, going from being the dominant male of the house full of submissive females to having an equally like minded mate.

 _Is she my mate?_ Sherlock thought to himself when it had first occurred to him. He rather liked the name and the idea.

More often than not he spent time in her bed, shut away from the world that seemed to be closing in on them every day.

Mornings and afternoons at the office trying to figure out the mystery of the murdered Watchers and evenings and early morning hours with Molly.

Occasionally he would see to Janine who, strangely enough, seemed to be in brighter spirits as of late. But she had done this before; pretended to be well and happy when behind it all was a woman waiting to snap.

Sherlock still had Mrs. Hudson keep a close eye on his wife.

Wife _only in name,_ he vowed.

It was mid morning at the office when Sherlock's tablet chimed. A message from Anthea, Mycroft's... whatever she was.

"Christ." He groaned and John glanced up from his desk.

"Problem?" John inquired and Sherlock nodded.

"My brother. I forgot my check-up. I'll only be gone an hour."

"Check-up?"

"Yes, ever since... well, my _habit_ he has me checked regularly by doctors. It's a terrible nuisance."

"He must care." John said smiling, knowing the truth that the elder Holmes cared more than he let on.

Sherlock shrugged.

"He just likes to annoy me. Be back in a bit. Don't let Irene talk you into one of her debates. Trust me, you'll lose."

John and Sherlock said their goodbyes.

Like clockwork Irene entered shortly after Sherlock left. John wasn't sure if she had been sent in or she just wanted to be of use.

She stood still by the door. It was haunting having something so lifelike so near when nothing about it truly had life.

 _Does she have a soul?_ John thought and decided to go against Sherlock's advisement.

"Irene?" John asked and she blinked her response. "Come sit with me." He said gesturing to Sherlock's chair. The android did not hesitate and with her awkward walk and the eerily strange movements of her arms she took a seat where the Watcher normally sat.

John was sure she had been tested before, but she hadn't been tested by him.

After all, Irene was all an old model and if the theory that machines could adapt to be more human, or to be human at all, then theoretically she was old enough to have learned to be more human.

However her body language said otherwise. But it wasn't her body John was interested in, it was her mind.

"How are you today, Irene?" John asked in a conversational tone, his own body language nonthreatening.

Irene thought for a moment, most likely processing what she had been asked.

"I am... fine." She replied.

"How do you feel?"

Irene blinked and didn't answer. Processing again?

"Irene?" John asked.

"Fine." Came a quick reply.

"Irene, describe how you feel." It wasn't a question.

And then Irene did something that was chillingly human... she licked her lips.

"I feel... worthy." She answered.

"Why worthy?" He asked, curiously.

"I am of use. I perform my duties as per my programming."

John sighed, he had almost gotten somewhere. Maybe the lip licking was just a mimic?

"Who makes you feel worthy?" He asked.

"Is this is a test?"

John held back a smile; she deflected. But Sherlock had warned John that she could omit, but deflecting wasn't the same.

"No. I'm simply trying to understand you."

"I am a 5th Generation Synthetic Humanoid, Irene Adler Model. Serial number-"

"No, no," John said shaking his head. "I meant... you as a being. I mean, do you _like_ anything?"

"Like?"

John couldn't tell if she were teasing him or not. Was he getting ahead of himself trying to test her?

"If you saw a puppy in a window what would you do?" He asked simply.

Irene thought for a moment, processing...

"Why am I looking at a puppy?" She asked.

"Because it's cute."

"Why?"

"Animals can be cute."

"They're flesh and bone like you. Are _you_ cute?"

Was that an insult?

"Irene, what do you think of the sunset?"

"Gases produced-"

"Okay, let's try something else."

John stood and approached Irene and held out his hand.

"Take my hand." He told her. Irene did, simply placing her hand in his, her grip light, her skin felt strangely real. There were no faint knuckle or hand hair, no wrinkles, no blemishes. Just soft, false skin over copper and wire.

"Do you feel anything?" He asked her.

"I feel your heartbeat in my hand."

"How does that make you feel?"

"I do not have one."

John knelt down to her eye level and placed a hand over breast bone, beneath where a heart should be, he only felt a faint ticking. Probably just some cog in this semi-realistic machine.

"How does it feel when I touch you?"

"Human. Humans touch, they show affection through touch. It feels human."

John removed his hand and returned to his chair.

"Irene, do you know anything about the murdered Watchers you're not telling us?"

"No."

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely."

Even her eyes didn't give her away. How could they when there was nothing behind them?

"How do you feel about love?"

"Another human emotion I am without."

"You don't love anyone?"

She looked to the left and then back at him. John held in another smile.

 _Gotcha,_ he thought proudly. Now he felt he was getting somewhere.

"I do not. I can not." She replied.

"No one has ever broken your heart?"

"I have no heart to break. A broken heart is a metaphor for internal pain caused by another or a situation. Loss of a child, emotional suffering, a dog run over by a car..."

John nodded.

"What do you think of... Mr. Holmes?"

"He is a Watcher and my boss."

"Would you ever hide anything from him?"

"No."

Irene deflected again, refraining from describing what she thought of Sherlock, instead describing what he did instead of who he was.

"Would it hurt you if you found out he wanted to transfer you?" John asked.

Irene didn't answer. Processing again? John waited and waited. Still no answer.

"Irene, would it cause you pain if he didn't want to work with you anymore?"

"I have been assigned here." She said obviously.

"Yes. But what if you weren't?"

Another long pause.

"I... I would... _they_ would find me a new position." She answered, but she stumbled to find the words.

John wasn't quite sure what he watching but if he had to describe it in a word it would be... evolution.

"Would you be hurt?"

"I _can not_ be hurt." She said a little aggressively. Her eyes darted around the room, either to find an escape or she was having a glitch.

"Irene, it's alright." John assured her. "No one is transferring you."

Irene's eyes seemed to settle back on him, but there was something behind them now that hadn't been there before. She almost looked afraid.

"I do not want to leave." She said to him. John nodded.

"Why?"

"I... I like it here. That is what I like. I like here, now, the room, the office, Mr. Holmes, you, the Watchers, the garage, the cases, the victims, the families, the murderers and the degenerates..."

John held up a hand and she stopped, if she were human she'd be out of breath.

"Irene, what do you think of the sunrise?"

"Beautiful." She answered.

"Do you watch the sunrise?"

"I have recorded every one since my creation."

"Why?"

"Because it is... a beginning."

John couldn't help but smile at her. Yes, she was more than she thought she was. More than what he thought she was. He felt himself trust her a little more.

"Back to work?"

"Are we done?" She almost sounded disappointed.

"For now."

"Will we talk like this again?"

"Yes."

X

"Traces of nicotine and allergy medication, like before." Anthea said handing Mycroft the tablet.

"Everything he'll be expecting. The drug has been out of system anyway since the antidote kicked in." Mycroft replied, only glancing at the tablet.

"It's not right, sir," Anthea said and Mycroft sighed.

"I know."

"He should be told."

"I _know_." Mycroft replied more sternly. Anthea nodded.

Mycroft sat with Sherlock and handed him a cigarette, the same deal as always.

"How is Janine?" Mycroft asked and Sherlock sighed out the cigarette smoke.

"Very well."

"I heard she had an accident."

Sherlock tapped the ash on the floor, avoiding the ashtray deliberately.

"She fell." Sherlock said simply.

"And cut her wrists open on the way down? She must have gone through a window."

Sherlock clenched his jaw, only unclenching to take another drag.

"Sherlock, Magnusson wants to see you."

"Out of the-fucking-question." Sherlock said broadly.

Mycroft rubbed his face, not caring if he showed his exhaustion to Sherlock. Let him use it against him, he was tired of fighting.

"Sherlock, you have been summoned by the greatest power in the world. You _will_ go if I have to drag you kicking and screaming!"

"I would like to see you try." Sherlock said dangerously.

The arrogance of the younger Holmes infuriated Mycroft to no end. If only Sherlock knew the lengths he had gone to, to keep him safe. The sacrifices, the sleepless nights. The hours upon hours he had taken away from his own life to deal with Sherlock and his drug-induced antics.

The lives that had been lost in keeping his safe...

 _Perhaps it is time..._

"Anything else?" Sherlock asked.

"No. Just don't go disappearing any time soon."

"Can't make any promises." Sherlock said rising.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft shouted and rising from his seat, Sherlock obeyed, unused to seeing his brother unhinged.

It almost... concerned him. They had always pecked at each other, rammed horns like goats. But it was never completely serious, the jabs and the insults.

And now Mycroft was showing his emotions he was showing his rage, he looked so old all of the sudden.

"Don't make me get _him_ involved." Mycroft threatened.

"Fuck you." Sherlock snapped.

"No, Sherlock, I'm serious. I know if there's anyone that can convince you it's him."

Sherlock tapped the ash into the ashtray this time and Mycroft knew he had him.

"When does Magnusson want to see me?"

"Soon. And you'll have to bring Janine."

"She's in no state to travel."

"Pregnant?"

"Unstable."

Mycroft returned to his seat.

"I'm afraid the Cardinal demands it." Mycroft said regrettably. "He... has something for you."

"That's not a good sign."

"No. But you'll have to go and get it over with. We all, even I, must pay homage to the king."

Sherlock laughed.

"He's not a king. He's an old man that needs to be put down."

"Careful, brother mine. It's thoughts like that that get one shot."

Sherlock finished his cigarette in two more drags before departing.

What could Magnusson possibly have for him? Perhaps he had discovered his affair with Molly and was ready to use it against him. Perhaps he had something else... it could be any number of things.

Five years ago, while undercover in the NLD on a completely different case, Sherlock had got wind of a human trafficking ring that was shuttling young boys off to Mars to be sold into sex slavery.

When Sherlock kept pulling on the thread it lead directly to Cardinal Charles-fucking-Magnusson.

As a young man, Sherlock saw this as his chance and he went directly above his partner, Anton Hooper, to his brother.

But Mycroft couldn't do anything about it. The Cardinal was the Supreme Law. He was the leader of their whole culture as his predecessor had been before him. Sherlock had been outraged and disgusted with Mycroft, calling him "no brother of mine".

It had nearly torn them apart. Until... Sherlock couldn't remember. He had gone on a Felicity binge and nearly died. When he woke up he was in a hospital and found out later that Anton Hooper had pulled him out, unbeknownst to him so had Mycroft personally.

After Sherlock was well he was ordered to forget about the whole thing. He refused to speak to Mycroft and even briefly thought about joining the rebels; but it was the damn rebels who were selling their children for drugs to the traffickers.

It was an endless cycle of murder and children's blood.

But Sherlock could never tell Janine that's why he hoped they never had children. What if that child ended up at the taloned feet of Cardinal Magnusson?

When Sherlock returned to the office John was alone, exactly where he left him. Sherlock's own chair had been moved slightly but he didn't say anything. When he sat down there was no warmth but the depth and imprint left was too light to be made by John.

"You talked to Irene?" Sherlock asked, John nearly asking him how he knew but remembered who he was talking to.

"Yeah. She's very interesting."

"I told you not to talk to her."

"I guess I couldn't help myself." John said shrugging.

"Anything interesting?"

"Yeah. She definitely knows something about the dead Watchers."

X

Sherlock went over John's theory as he made his way to the marital bedroom that night.

John hypothesized that Irene knew exactly what happened with the Watchers but was under orders not to reveal it.

" _And you tried interrogating her?"_ Sherlock had asked, rather impressed at the balls his new friend had.

John explained to Sherlock what Irene had revealed and what was more what was unearthed was that Irene, despite being synthetic, had a pressure point. And that pressure point was not just her work but Sherlock.

" _She's attached to her, you're her new normal."_ John had disclosed, rather excitedly.

Sherlock told his friend they needed to be careful. They would discuss more this weekend when John joined him again for dinner. Sherlock had some cameras in his house but not in every room, he had done away with most of them years ago before realizing their importance.

When Sherlock entered the bedroom, Janine was awake and in bed with a book.

However it was not the Joys of Motherhood... it was a book called "The Dutiful Wife". The change set Sherlock on edge. Janine was a creature of habit if he ever saw one.

Janine had fresh bandages on her pale wrists, but there were no red stains. They were healing nicely and she would obediently attend therapy, with Molly as company.

Sherlock was not an idiot; he had noticed his wife's increasing interest in Molly's welfare. But why all the sudden had she taken such an interest in a maid whose name she had barely known a month?

There were too many reasons for Sherlock to be such a paranoid man. Any time Janine was out of the bedroom he had ordered Mrs. Hudson do it a bed check to make sure his wife wasn't hiding any sharp objects under her pillow or in or under the mattress or bed.

Sherlock didn't enjoy living such a life. He wasn't afraid of his wife, he was afraid for her.

"Good day?" She asked him pleasantly, wifely.

"Yes." He answered.

 _I'd rather be with your maid than you,_ he wanted to say. But husbands didn't say that to their wives.

"Will you take me tonight?" She asked.

Sherlock paused in the doorway of the bathroom, his hand on the frame, his head and shoulders hung.

"Yes." He answered.

 _You did make a promise that you would try,_ he kept reminding himself.

He took an extra long shower, praying Janine would have already fallen asleep by the time he was finished. Alas, he had no such luck.

Once more the passionless mating left Sherlock feeling hollow and depressed. Once more Janine stood in front of the bathroom mirror, nude, sweaty in the aftermath of their intercourse, caressing her flat belly, mouthing the words "where are you?"

Sherlock lay next to his wife, only in name, wide awake. Tired not from the events of the day, kept awake by them instead.

He imagined himself jumping from a roof in a drug induced daze. He felt himself falling into murky waters. An angelic hand reaching down to grasping his own, pulling him to safety.

But this wasn't a dream, it was simply a manifestation of his own making.

The bedsheets were cool to the touch, Janine sleeping peacefully beside him. Or at least she looked peaceful. He wondered what she dreamt of. Babies, a family, a husband that showered her with affection.

It wasn't unheard of for Watchers and their wives to find common ground, to be tender to one another. It rarely happened though.

Sherlock remembers Anton Hooper speaking quite fondly of his late wife. How in the morning light she looked like some angelic being, glowing, a halo of gold around her head.

Sherlock did not think of such romantic sentiments when thinking of his wife; he thought only of Molly, in her bed, curled up and asleep; or perhaps awake, waiting for him. He died every time he could not go to her. When he had to fulfill his duty as a husband, Watcher and man, he felt worse than dead.

 _Heavy is the head that gets no sleep,_ he thought sadly.

Sherlock hoped Molly could feel his anguish, that he took no pleasure in being with Janine. That he only wanted her to be at his side. His little paramour, his alter-ego, his one true... _**love**_.

And yet Mrs. Hudson's words hung around his neck like a noose.

The time would come when he needed to break Molly. He had tried before and she had taken him back all the same. No, he had to hurt her, verbally, emotionally, mentally... even physically.

And then, to ease her pain, drive her into the arms of a man who would be better for her. Thankfully, fate had already made John Watson and Molly Hooper cross paths.

Horridly, he began devising a plan to sever his relationship with Molly once and for all.

 _How queer it is, that I should long for a woman that I certainly must burn the heart out of,_ he thought.

Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes as he finally felt the veil of sleeping approaching.

And as he always saw behind his eyelids before drifting off, but never remembering the next day, little blue words blinking at him: **POWERING DOWN**.

 **AN: DUN DUN DUN! Hey guys! So, I'll be out of town until the 13th on a mini vacation and I won't be bringing my laptop, sorry to end on an obvious cliffhanger. I will be bringing my tablet and using Tumblr if any of you wanted to communicate through that platform: my username is intheruinsofhislove**

 **I really hope you're all still enjoying the story, I'm thoroughly enjoying writing it. I posted on Tumblr that I made a (terrible) trailer for this story, however I cannot post it yet due to spoilers. Thank you all again for your kind words and your endless amount of support, you're the real heroes! :) Until next time!**


	14. CHAPTER THIRTEEN: The Noise of Thunder

WARNING: sexual content ahead!

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Noise of Thunder...

 _System diagnostic... checking, updates ready: authorization required. Waiting... waiting... waiting... shutdown reboot will commence without authorization..._

Ian Westwood was a new technician to the Lundquist and Solomon Robotics and Engineering Institute. He had been recruited straight out of the academy and placed under the direct surveillance and mentorship of Mr. Lundquist, Solomon and mercurial Holmes.

Ian had never met Mr. Holmes himself, he had only heard stories about him.

Whispers here and there from other frightened interns; the young fellows didn't even really know what they were doing there or who exactly they were dealing with.

The tall and elusive Doctor Holmes would stay for hours shut away in his lab, giving out different orders to different interns and employees, no one ever knew what the other was doing and very few had direct contact with him.

The employees and interns were given instructions on the tasks they were meant to perform and he would have one his of precious android's keep a close watch.

It was all very, very hush-hush.

Any leak of _any_ information was to be immediately reported and there would be a semi-bloodless interrogation followed by an equally quick execution.

On more than one occasion Ian had himself seen the whistleblowers being taken away by Watchers and Spooks, human and and synthetic alike, to be shot outside in full view of whoever had the stomach to watch.

Ian had made himself watch only one execution. He had excused himself and emptied his stomach, depositing his lunch in the courtyard where his colleague was killed.

And gazing down at him like some god of the old days was Mr. Holmes, hands in his pockets, motionless, not even his eyes moved as he looked down from his ivory tower at Ian.

It wasn't so much the violence of the execution, in fact it had been very quick and the man died instantly, it was the very truth of the moment; that Ian was witnessing a life fading from all existence, snuffed out never to be lighted again.

It was the bizarre and obscene way in which the Watchers did it so effortlessly, so carelessly, so very at ease with themselves. Taking a life had never seemed so easy.

The cold steel eyes of the General Watcher, those eyes following the man's body to the ground and disbanding before the body of Ian's colleague was even cold.

And since that terrible day, Ian had kept his head down and kept to himself. He didn't make friends. He didn't tell secrets. He did his job and went home. He didn't try to bother anyone, he rarely asked questions.

However, on this particular day, Ian was very hungover. He was young after all and after another night of nightmares he had set out to a small pub for a drink.

And one drink turned to eight and before he knew it his alarm was screeching it's unholy call at him.

Ian had nearly been late; he had arrived disheveled and unshaven, he would surely get a write up for his appearance. But at least he wasn't late!

His morning shift started promptly at 4:00 AM.

Sadly though he was exhausted and by 5:13 AM he was beginning to nod out. His eyelids had become heavier, his limbs falling to his sides, his lips dropping open and a bit of drool falling from the corner of his mouth.

The bright computer screens in front of him putting him to sleep rather than keeping him awake.

The data rushing in and out and across the screen was not enough to keep him vigilant and he was was equally unaware of it's importance.

And even more unfortunate for Ian Westwood, though he did not know it at the time, he was the sole caretaker of Lundquist and Solomon's greatest achievement.

Man had laughed in the face of God, they had stolen the gift and miracle of life.

And that life... needed an update. An update Ian Westwood was too hungover to notice...

X

 _Burn the heart out of her..._

Sherlock felt semi nauseous when he woke but not entirely ill.

It was still dusk, the horizon was beginning to bloom pink and yellow but the cold gray and blue sky lingered ever still. He felt Molly shift against him. Her little frame was curled against his side, her hand lifted sleepily to touch the side of his neck, her thumb ghosting over his lips.

Sherlock smiled tiredly and rolled over towards her, while she turned her back against him, letting him coil his long arms around her like a shield.

"Stay with me." She mumbled, he kissed along her neck, her body warm and inviting.

They were both still naked from the night before.

"I want to." He told her and he knew she was smiling and his heart filled with joy. He ran his hand over her breasts, feeling her nipples harden at his touch, her breath catching and her hips pressing back against him.

Molly ran her hands over his muscular arms, feeling the ridges of his scars but not asking where or how he got them. Her father had scars like that too...

"Let's escape," she whispered as he hotly kissed the back of her neck, knowing how it tickled and made her squirm, delighting in the feel of her growing wetness rubbing a delicious friction against his cock. "We'll run away- _ah_ , please..."

Sherlock cupped her chin in his hand and tilted her face towards him, gazing into those sunny, trusting eyes, his mouth hovering just above her own.

"That's treasonous talk, Miss. Hooper." Sherlock said in a warning tone.

Molly's tummy fluttered when his voice dropped into that dangerous baritone. He sounded so commanding and lurid.

A devil in disguise, a demon waiting in the shadows, beckoning her closer to his dark lair and she wanted to fall into it and never come back.

She wanted him to possess her for eternity.

"Are you going to arrest me, Watcher Holmes?" She asked him, trying to lean up to kiss him but failing to at the angle they were at. Sherlock held back a smirk.

 _You're only making things harder for yourself,_ he thought.

"I don't think that will be necessary," he said, with the same dark tone, "I think you just need to be punished."

Molly licked her lips and he gripped her little wrists but she continued to face him, though he now had her practically on her stomach but still slightly turned.

"Will you?" She whispered innocently.

Molly moaned softly when she felt the head of his cock rubbing against her. He began pressing himself into her without little warning or preparation, not that she needed it at this point.

His voice undid her, it unmade her and only his ability to elicit such rapture from her seemed to put her back together again.

Sherlock maintained the blissful, sinful and infectious eye contact with her. Groaning softly against her red cheek, delighting always as her lips parted and her sheath welcomed him.

The little clear beads of sweat poured from her forehead, his lips finally met hers in short, sweet kisses; tongues mingling softly as he gripped her tighter to him, bonding them together as one being, one entity, one mind... one soul.

 _I swear our hearts beat as one,_ he thought desperately.

Molly reached back and gripped his cheek, holding him closer, moulding him to her.

Time could have stopped, the world could end, she didn't care.

All that mattered were the moments they shared. Nothing else mattered. She couldn't live without him. He was part of her; he had taken something from her no other man ever could. She had cut out half her heart and eagerly handed it to him.

"Molly," he said sharply and his movements became... dull, slow...

"Molly..." he said this time almost painfully.

Molly turned and he pulled himself from her and fell to his back. He began jerking, like he couldn't breathe.

"No, no, no," was all she could think to say. "Sir, sir," she shook him and his eyes seemed to glaze... they would roll back and then appear again.

His movements were jerky, awkward, inhuman...

Molly put a hand over his heart. She opened her mouth, looking to the door when he grabbed her hand with a strength that nearly made her cry out in pain.

"Don't- don't call... anyone." He ordered through clenched teeth.

Sherlock knew he wasn't having a seizure, he wouldn't still be conscious. Something else was wrong... his brain was on fire, he couldn't breathe right. It felt like something was inside him, pulling him apart. He released his hold on Molly and all she could do was hold him.

"I don't know what to do... what's happening?" Molly asked him as she cried. He tried to offer some sort of comfort but couldn't.

The pain was overwhelming. He felt hot suddenly, right in his chest, his core was on fire. He tried to keep his moans of pain under control but couldn't.

It was too painful and he yelled.

It was a horrid scream that cut through the dark and the first thing Sherlock thought of was that damn stray cat from months ago howling into the dusk air, crying in pain, crying in anger... crying, crying...

The door opened almost immediately and in came Mrs. Hudson, unashamed by the nakedness she saw.

"Molly, dress." Mrs. Hudson ordered and she took a seat near Sherlock, he looked to her as if she were an angel. Molly pulled on a robe and could only watch as Mrs. Hudson covered Sherlock in a blanket.

"I'm-" Sherlock tried to say but Mrs. Hudson put a gentle hand over his mouth.

Molly watched the housekeeper reach under his head as if arranging his pillow.

"It's alright, dear, I'm here." Mrs. Hudson whispered atttentively.

Molly watched as Sherlock's eyes seemed to just... close. But it wasn't natural, it was... sudden, fast, _dead_.

"Molly, he's passed out. I need you to get dressed and move to another room while I make a call for help."

"But I-"

" _Molly_ ," Mrs. Hudson said sternly. "You've had a shock. The Master is ill. Now dress and speak of this to no one, not even our Lady."

Molly's tears weren't even dry. She glanced briefly at Mr. Holmes, his chest wasn't moving-

"Now!" Mrs. Hudson shouted and Molly set about doing what she was told.

When the little maid left, Mrs. Hudson called Mycroft.

"You idiot, he's malfunctioned." She hissed over the phone.

X

Mycroft stood over the computer screens reviewing the data. His brother missed his latest upgrade.

Mr. Lundquist and Mr. Solomon hovered nearby, calm but ready for whatever Mycroft Holmes was about to chuck at them.

"Who was the cause of this?" Mycroft asked calmly.

"Intern, new recruit. He's been dealt with accordingly." Solomon replied assuredly.

"Shot this morning." Lundquist added.

"What kind of damage are we talking about?" Mycroft asked, swiping his finger across the touch screen.

"We'll need to Emergancy-Install. Otherwise we could lose a lot of data."

"How much is a lot?"

Solomon looked to his business partner.

"The last six months." Lundquist replied.

Mycroft groaned.

"I suppose that's not the worst thing." The elder Holmes said.

"Yes but, you can't reset the clock of the whole world for your brother, Mycroft." Solomon said and Mycroft knew he was right. That would mean Magnusson would know the truth.

"What do we do?" Mycroft asked, finally turning to face the two men.

"We've got our best man on it." Lundquist said proudly. Mycroft scoffed at the two men of industry.

"Sherlock would be most... vexed if he knew I had allowed his baby brother to mend him." Mycroft said and he walked towards a viewing screen that looked down into an operating theater where a man in a navy blue medical uniform began dismantling parts of Sherlock Holmes; piece by piece.

The doctor handed a leg to an android nurse.

"Half brother, of course." Solomon reminded Mycroft, as if he didn't know it was his brother below working hard at taking Sherlock apart.

"Half brother, blood brother, it doesn't matter. He's the proof of my father's stupidity and I'm afraid history seems to repeat itself." Mycroft said, distastefully.

Rayburn Holmes ordered his nurses to make sure Sherlock was very comfortable in his Dream Status.

The fall had been a bad one. Sherlock had tried killing himself, nearly did, had modern medicine not intervened. Had medicine and science not been sped up just for him to save his life he would be in the family plot.

But instead, their bastard half brother, Rayburn, had succeeded in saving Sherlock's life. He and Sherlock were a blood match and he regularly gave donations when Sherlock needed it.

Sherlock had needed a lot of saving, it was called a miracle he was still breathing when he was rushed to his brother's lab; he had needed dozens of surgeries and transplants.

His heart was real but not his own, it was a given by donor as well as his lungs and a kidney. His legs couldn't be saved and neither could his left arm and his right hand had needed replacing.

All together Sherlock was a very expensive piece of hardware. Half man half synthetic. Some called them cyborgs, but they didn't exist yet, at least not to the general public.

Rayburn's department had been heading it, he was responsible for the new and improved SH's and had personally overseen the design of the Irene Adler models.

Cyborgs were just the next logical step in the evolution of synthetics. And because of Sherlock's little jump all of Rayburn's research was now put to the test. He just hadn't thought it would involve his elder half brother.

"What are his chances, Ray?" Mycroft asked through a speaker.

Rayburn sighed and he opened the back of Sherlock's head...

The brain had been another matter. It was nearly useless when they got him on an operating table. What they could save was a mixed bag of synthetic and metal and some human tissue.

All of Sherlock's memories had been virtually reprogrammed. They weren't lies, but some were missing. He had needed to learn to speak again and when he had succeeded his memory of it was erased.

"Five years, no incidents and now _this_ ," Ray said practically ignoring Mycroft. "He's lucky. The crash could have been much worse. What was he doing at the time?"

"You saw how he was when he came in, take a wild guess." Mycroft said dryly, crossing his arms in irritation.

Rayburn raised his eyebrows before returning to his work.

"I have to manually update the system." Rayburn said and Mycroft held his breath, though neither man near him saw it.

Rayburn was handed a long, thin metal tool with small teeth at the end. He inserted it into Sherlock's brain and basically hit a restart button. Slowly he removed the tool and handed it back to the synthetic nurse.

The table was repositioned so that Sherlock was now in a lying down position and Rayburn stood over him, staring at his nearly armless and completely legless brother.

Rayburn never thought he would see his elder brother in such a state ever again.

However this was far less bloody than before.

"He wasn't alone," Rayburn easily deduced, glancing up at Mycroft through the viewing screen. "Who saw him?"

"My contact says a maid." Mycroft replied simply.

"And?"

"And she's been given a story."

"Stories change depending on who's telling them." Rayburn said warningly.

"She's no threat." Mycroft promised but Rayburn wasn't so easily convinced however he dropped it as he could not contend with his half brother's power.

Rayburn turned his attention back to Sherlock, the restart was working as he glanced at Sherlock's vitals on a monitor.

"He'll be groggy and out for a while," Rayburn said removing his mask, the resemblance between Sherlock and himself nearly uncanny, always unnerving Mycroft. "But the damage won't be detrimental."

"What kind of damage?" Mr. Solomon asked.

"Minor memory loss, fatigue," Rayburn paused when he noticed a younger, blonde man being ushered into the room where Mycroft, Solomon and Lundquist stood. He didn't recognize him and he didn't continue speaking.

"Captain Watson," Rayburn heard Mycroft say, his brother holding out his and shaking the new man's.

Mycroft was about to speak again but pressed a button muting and cutting Rayburn out entirely. The half Holmes gritted his teeth and turned his attention back to Sherlock.

X

"Thank you for coming on such short notice." Mycroft continued when he was sure the communication between himself and Rayburn had been cut off.

"You said it was urgent- Jesus, is that Sherlock?" John said worriedly and he rushed to the viewing screen.

At first he remained stunned, then relieved, then astonished and then his brain caught up with his eyes.

The back of Sherlock's head open, parts of his body missing... the back of his fucking head was open-

"What... _what_ am I seeing?" John asked quietly, almost to himself, he couldn't seem to raise his voice. It was gone, left him alone to wonder what kind of monstrous place had he wandered into.

"Captain Watson I am involving you in this matter because I owe you a great debt and I felt compelled to bring into the inner sanctum." Mycroft said.

John found his voice.

"That's all very poetic but what the fuck am I seeing?!" John shouted.

The three other men looked to one another, Solomon and Lundquist left leaving John once again alone with Mycroft.

"Five years ago when Sherlock went off the deep end he tried killing himself. He practically succeeded. Doctor Rayburn is the leading scientist and engineer in robotics and synthetic humanoids in this institute and saved his life." Mycroft explained.

John felt his legs beginning to give out and he stumbled into a chair. He felt his eyes watering for some reason.

"You... you turned him into that... _thing_?" John asked incredulously.

Mycroft's whole body stiffened and his fist clenched.

"That _thing_ is my brother and I went to hell and back saving his life. I would appreciate some respect, Captain." Mycroft said resolutely.

John wasn't ready to give any and he felt himself becoming increasingly angry but he still couldn't stand, his legs seemed to forget how to work.

"The men who just left, the women in that room, who I might add are synthetic themselves and will have their memories wiped after this, ourselves and a contact of mine are the only ones who know the truth. I needed _you_ to know the truth, Captain Watson. I needed you to understand that I care very much for my brother and I would do and have done everything to save him."

John sighed deeply and clenched and unclenched his hands as if he were trying to relieve the tension he was feeling.

"Does Sherlock know?" John asked already knowing the answer but wanting Mycroft to say it.

"No. I have planned on telling him-"

John laughed.

"Five years ago would have been a good start." John said standing and walking to the viewing screen once more. He had seen men in worse conditions than Sherlock on the battlefield, even in his own burrow growing up.

But there was something more hollow about Sherlock now.

Sherlock was barely a man and he didn't know it.

"Who's the doctor?" John asked, "He looks familiar."

"He's our half brother, Doctor Rayburn Holmes." Mycroft replied.

John groaned and rubbed his face.

"Christ, there's three of you?"

"Is that an insult?"

"Take it as you like."

X

Rayburn privately went through Sherlock's recent memories on a tablet, facing away from Mycroft and the man he had called Captain.

The maid, she showed up quite often, the girl Sherlock had crashed in front of.

Rayburn felt quite voyeuristic watching his brother's private and intimate moments but he resolved it was for science. He didn't exactly need to know what his brother was doing right before he crashed but he wanted to see her again, see her give in again...

 _History does repeat itself, brother mine,_ Rayburn thought blandly. The girl's name was Molly Hooper, she had been the daughter of Anton Hooper, Sherlock's Watcher mentor.

And as far as Rayburn could tell the girl had no idea that Sherlock had murdered her father.

Molly Hooper was a sweet looking little thing, all flushed cheeks and virginal skin.

 _Not so virginal anymore,_ he chuckled to himself, glancing at Sherlock for a moment.

"So, you like blondes," he said mockingly to Sherlock's unconscious form, as if he were afraid Sherlock would suddenly wake up but he knew that was impossible. He had designed the Dream Status program himself.

Rayburn turned his attention back to the tablet.

In a queer way when this little Molly Hooper thing would glance up at Sherlock with those sweet pretty eyes he felt his stomach flutter, like _he_ was Sherlock. Like this sweet cherub was begging _him_ to fuck her.

Subtly, Rayburn bit his bottom lip and found his body slowly reacting to the intimacy Sherlock and Molly shared.

 _Intimacy is one word to call it,_ he thought to himself.

Rayburn and Sherlock had had an on again and off again type of relationship. They could stay up for hours talking and agreeing and then the next moment they wouldn't speak for days after a disagreement. They were like fire and ice met a volcano.

When Rayburn was conceived his mother was a housemaid swept away in a whimsical romance with his father and his mother's employer.

 _History is just one big circle, isn't it, Sherlock?_ Rayburn thought.

What was it with the Holmes men and maids?

Mrs. Holmes tried and failed to have the maid removed from the home to be sent to a factory where she would surely meet an untimely death.

But Mr. Holmes had put his foot down and said he would take responsibility for his transgression.

The maid was allowed to stay in the home and raise her child but she was to keep her distance from Mrs. Holmes, lest the worse happen.

Mr. Holmes also kept his distance from both mother and child having very little contact with the boy. This had all taken place after the Fall of sectors 15-20.

But children will be children and when the pureblood Holmes boys met the halfbreed Holmes they naturally became friends.

Mrs. Holmes didn't keep the truth from her own children and often called Rayburn "bastard boy" instead of the name given to him by his father.

That was also a blow to Mrs. Holmes, another humiliation that she bore in silence. The name Rayburn was an old family name, it had been Mr. Holmes' father's name and it stung Mrs. Holmes greatly because her husband had refused to give either of their sons his father's name.

The marriage between Sherlock and Mycroft's parents lasted until Mrs. Holmes died of a heart attack, Mr. Holmes followed within two years of cancer.

The inheritance had been split rather unevenly but Rayburn hadn't been expecting much. But Mycroft had looked after him, sending him to school and getting him a good job.

All the half Holmes wanted was for his mother to be well taken care of.

Rayburn loved his mother dearly and knew how much Sherlock and Mycroft appreciated her. To hide the fact she had had a child with a married man Mycroft had given her a new name and identity.

Mrs. Hudson, she was called now...

No one really suspected Mrs. Hudson of ever having a child because she had been labeled as an Infertile. But due to a less than common mistake on her paperwork it turned out the woman had been very fertile.

But Mrs. Hudson lived out her life as a maid and housekeeper, never complaining and remaining faithful to Holmes Sr. and his children.

Rayburn detested that Mycroft used his mother as a spy for him but his mother saw it as her duty. She saw all the boys as her children as she had been more a mother to all of them than Mrs. Holmes.

Sherlock groaned on the table, sweeping Rayburn from his thoughts. He closed the memories on the tablet and placed it on a nearby desk. He scooted forward on his rolling stool and sat at eye level with Sherlock. His half brother wasn't awake yet, just mumbling nonsense.

Rayburn concluded Sherlock would be like this for some time.

"Oh brother mine, what a bother it is to keep you operational." Rayburn said placidly. He had always been seen as the less emotional brother. He felt something akin to brotherhood towards Sherlock and Mycroft but he couldn't call it brotherly love.

X

"Molly Hooper may be a problem," Mycroft said as he and John spoke. The Captain had calmed some but the rage was burning below the surface, John might have been a great spy but even Mycroft could see it.

The telltale twitch in his right eye spoke volumes.

"The maid?" John asked frowning.

 _Molly Hooper, that name... it's still bugging me,_ he thought to himself.

"Yes. She was present when Sherlock had his... episode." Mycroft said, brushing an index finger over his brow.

"Present? In what context?" John asked and Mycroft cleared his throat.

"A very delicate context, Captain Watson."

And there it was. Sherlock's behavior became as plain as fucking day. Sherlock was fucking- _sleeping_ with Molly Hooper. John didn't want to use the word "fucking" when thinking of Molly, it seemed very wrong and indelicate.

John's face relaxed, dropped and he sighed deeply.

 _Lolly Looper,_ he thought, feeling quite like the idiot.

"I'll talk to her." John said decidedly. Mycroft's eyebrows raised.

"Really?"

"Yeah, sure, why not? She's probably terrified."

"Vulnerable too, I'm sure." Mycroft said with a telling smirk. John detested that face, because _that_ was now the farthest thing from his mind.

 _No it's not, it's what you turn to when all else fails,_ a familiar voice reminded him.

"Yeah, I'm also sure she thinks the worst has happened. I'd like to reassure her everything's fine and maybe prevent an innocent young woman from dying."

Mycroft shrugged.

"If you like." Mycroft said and he stood, coming around to look out the viewing screen once more.

John followed him.

"Why not just let him die, Mycroft?" John asked sadly, looking at Sherlock laid out like that. His hand missing, parts of him on other tables being examined.

It wasn't right, it wasn't normal. There was so much about this that was macabre and brutal.

They were all mad scientists in John's eyes. Hacking apart men to make them into their electronic horrors.

Sewing together makeshift walking computers.

 _The abominations of man would never be outnumbered by any other species,_ he thought gloomily.

"You best take your leave, Captain." Mycroft said and he leaned forward, both hands against the ledge near the viewing screen, revealing his exhaustion.

Rayburn produced another medical tool, it looked like a saw, ready to cut into something with a result quite gruesome.

John felt his stomach squirm. He didn't want to leave Sherlock, not in this terrible place.

The same savior reflex he felt when looking for the Watcher in the NLD returned.

 _Tear them apart, take him away,_ save _him!_

But the instinct to save, to rescue, had to be pushed aside. There was another who needed him now.

X

John requested to meet Molly at a little cafe during her free time that evening. She had been terribly frightened and had to ask special permission from both Mrs. Hudson and Lady Holmes if she could go, as Sherlock was indisposed and could not give personal permission.

Molly confided in him that Lady Holmes was told by Mycroft himself that her husband was simply away at the hospital and would return shortly. And she believed it. She was supposed to, what else could she do? Why would Mycroft lie to her after all?

Lady Holmes saw nothing wrong with the maid meeting the Captain, telling Molly that Captain Watson was a nice man and meant her no harm.

Mrs. Hudson had been weary but also agreed.

Molly sat beside John in a crowded cafe, speaking low and leaning in close to be able to hear one another as everyone around them seemed to erupt in laughter or some kind of obnoxious noise all at once.

John hated crowds.

"I don't know why you'd want to talk to me about Mr. Holmes." Molly said, avoiding eye contact.

Instead her eyes shot about the room and she would turn her whole body to look at the door as if she were followed. John had appropriately sat facing the door, an old habit and a safe one.

John reached out and pulled Molly's chair closer and she gasped as it shifted beneath her.

"You know why, don't lie," John said stonely. Molly's eyes filled with tears and he regretted his tone. He sighed deeply. "Molly, dangerous people know you were there. They won't harm you though. They know that... that Mr. Holmes would be very upset."

"I-I don't know what I saw..."

Molly held back her tears and John couldn't help but smile weakly.

"I know, but you must promise me, that even though you don't understand what happened, you won't speak of it to anyone."

Molly took a breath and her eyes began to clear and she nodded.

 _She's stronger than she thinks,_ he thought.

Molly shifted and their knees brushed against one another and he felt an electric current run up his leg, landing in the pit of his stomach. She didn't move away, though she definitely felt it too because that was the moment she chose to look him in the eye.

"I'm afraid." She said honestly. John reached down and touched her hand and she immediately gripped it tightly.

"I know. Would it make you feel better if I told I was too?" He asked her gently. She giggled and sniffled.

"I wouldn't believe you." She said sweetly. He smiled wider.

"Why?"

"Men like you don't get scared. Men like you and Mr. Holmes."

John looked away, feeling mildly stung by her words but knowing she didn't know they were two very different men. If only Molly knew how frightened he had been before. How scared he had been on the night he lost the one person he promised he would always keep safe.

John returned his eyes to her, she was still holding his hand under the table. He wanted to kiss her in that moment. He wanted to fight for her love where he knew Sherlock couldn't. He wanted to be the brave man for her.

 _Let me touch you,_ he thought staring into her eyes. He tested the waters, those tepid waters that could grow hot at any moment.

John caressed her knee with his own a little more firmly, he watched her eyes dilate and she didn't move away.

"Molly, come home with me," he whispered and she sighed, seeming to come back to herself, averting her eyes and taking her hand from his.

The warmth of her knee disappeared and he found himself missing it dearly.

"I cannot. I..."

"You promised yourself to him." John said dejectedly, almost accusingly. His ego was bruised as well as his manhood. But more than that and he was ashamed to admit it, he was outdone by a fucking robot.

John kept trying to remind himself he couldn't be mad at Sherlock, this wasn't the Watcher's fault. But damn it he needed someone to blame. If it hadn't been for Sherlock-fucking-Holmes he wouldn't be in this mess.

Molly raised her chin and her back straightened, her eyes flashed with anger for the first time in his presence.

"I am promised to no man." She said firmly before rising and leaving the cafe.

"Shit." John muttered and he chased after her. He caught up to Molly, the night was still young, the air was cold and he followed the angry puffs of her breath as they left her body.

"Hooper!" He called after her. She turned but only for a moment before walking on after people seemed to begin staring.

John finally grabbed hold of her hand and pulled her down a small sidestreet.

"Unhand me." She hissed at him and he did, raising his hands, showing her he didn't want to hurt her.

"Molly, you shouldn't walk alone. It's dangerous." He said to her, his tone apologetic and she seemed to agree.

There was tension boiling, everything the other was feeling beginning to take firm hold of them like tormenting hands.

"I... I don't want to give him up. My heart is breaking." She said suddenly, her voice cracking. He couldn't watch her cry, it tore apart so many pieces of him.

"Don't, please, don't do that." He begged but it seemed to only make matters worse and she buried her face in her hands.

John felt himself being taken back to that night... the night he lost all he held dear to him. Her eyes so like Molly's and yet completely different; but it wasn't the color or the shape... it was the _look_.

Her voice had been broken too, her makeup smeared with her tears, blood coating his hands as he rocked her body back and forth.

And worst of all, that body he had loved that contained the soul of the most sacred woman he ever knew, had to be left behind.

John had left her body in that alley where she bled out, where he failed to save her. Where he stayed, physically returning, but his soul had stayed to lay and die beside _her_.

 _You still can't say my name, can you my love?_ He heard her voice whisper to him.

Molly licked her lips and wiped her eyes and John felt something take hold of him.

With heavy steps he reached for Molly, gripping the side of her waist securely and pressing his mouth to hers while pressing her back against a wall. She didn't fight but she didn't return his kiss either. Not until, with his free hand, he cupped her cheek and ran his thumb across her cheekbone and she shivered and closed her eyes even tighter.

Molly's lips parted and he thrust his tongue passionately into her mouth and she moaned quietly in the back of her throat as she allowed his wet assault on her mouth.

Eventually both of his hands found her waist and he pulled her body closer to his.

Molly wrapped her arms around his neck as they kissed in a seedy side street, unaware they were being watched.

John pulled away a little, their breath scorching against the lips of the other.

"I'm sorry-" John tried to say before she pulled him in for another kiss.

This time there was no question or hesitation in her kiss.

John pressed her more firmly into the wall, hoisting her up and wrapping her legs around his waist. She stroked the nape of his neck sweetly, lovingly...

 _Is she thinking of him?_ He wondered sadly and jealously.

God, it was so wrong... the heat of the moment, the vulnerability, the loss, the sadness... it was all soul crushing.

It was heartbreaking. He broke for Molly and with her all at once. He wanted to take her pain away and drown his own.

They were a catalyst for the other, a conduit into which they could drench their grief in.

Molly felt his hands pawing at her body, forcing her dress up her waist and she gripped him tighter with her thighs forcing him to groan hard against her.

 _I am no one's, no man owns me,_ she thought.

But was it true? She bent so easily to two men already and really, how well did she know both of them?

Molly had once felt liberated in the arms of Mr. Holmes, loved even. But with John it was only to satisfy a need, an itch she couldn't scratch herself. A warm body to remind her of someone else... someone to love her, to take the pain away, to forget...

Molly tilted her face away from his as he kissed her neck and he paused.

John stared at the lovebite just below her ear. He felt himself harden, he felt himself grow cold, he felt a needy and queer compulsion to compete.

 _He's been here,_ John thought strangely.

The moment didn't last long before he put his mouth over the lovebite and she moaned warmly against him and when he bit down hard she clenched her eyes shut, but the tears still trickled out.

 _Mine, mine for tonight,_ he thought. He felt like an animal. He felt desperate to leave his own mark on her, even if she would never be his.

John reached further under her and pushed her underwear aside.

Molly could hardly focus on anything except the throbbing between her legs and the sharp pain in her neck.

But she did hear the clank of John hurriedly undoing his belt and pulling his zipper down. He picked her up a little higher and before she could open her mouth she felt him lowering her onto his cock.

She gripped him closer, her fists beating into his shoulders. She gasped and moaned sharply, for he gave her no time at all and began battering her with his cock.

John hit deep and hard inside her, so much so she thought she would come in seconds.

Molly fell back against the cold wall, it was raining a little, barely drizzling. The humidity making it hard to breathe. They panted and groaned like wild animals in a feeding frenzy.

Above their heads she saw a transport taking off for Mars or Astrid 1 or one of the other colonies and she imagined herself for a moment of being there with Sherlock...

John could hardly control himself, undone and outmanned by a fucking robot! He couldn't keep up with his brain, he wanted to show her what a real man felt like. That she needn't pine so kindly after Sherlock.

Leaning in close, he felt compelled to whisper to her,

"I could be good to you," he looked her in the eyes. He thrust slower but deeply, punctuating certain words with his thrusts. He saw tears forming at the corners of her eyes again. "I could take care of you." It sounded like a vow, a pledge to her and only her.

But Molly only shook her head, no...

John choked back a sob and Molly saw his revenge in his eyes as he picked up his speed again and fucked her brutally into the wall, planting a hand beside her head like a prison. She cried out into his neck, it wasn't painful, it was glorious.

It was real flesh, blood, rain, sweat, desire and there was no going back.

And all the while, they were still unaware they were being watched.

The drone not far away, recording them.

Losing the battle within himself not to come too soon John felt himself nearing his end. He felt his stomach clench and he began erratically thrusting into her. She tried to remain as quiet she could but both were failing.

"Fuck, fuck," he moaned. He lifted both her legs up a little higher and with each thrust she seemed to sit up a little straighter. He hated Sherlock in that moment. He betrayed his friend, he took his woman, he brutally had his way with her against a wall where anyone could see them, and he didn't care.

John knew his retribution in that moment, it was barbaric and primal. But he wanted to, he wanted to so badly. He leaned in close to Molly. He felt her cunt clenching around him, fuck she was so wet it was amazing.

"I'm gonna come inside you," he told her giving her no choice, he was shaking all over.

Molly didn't seem to understand at first and then she did and then the realization she couldn't stop him dawned on her.

Pushing her hands against his chest and stomach and then his shoulders to stop him but her attempts were in vain. He was stronger than her. And though her instincts told her to fight, something else inside her sparked brightly at the prospect of him coming inside her.

Molly remembered what the doctor had told her about sleeping with men without a condom and realized they hadn't used one. She felt like an idiot. Like a tramp.

But she wanted the Captain, she had wanted him so badly. And yet he didn't make her forget Sherlock, if anything, it made her yearn for him more.

"Please," she whimpered and he kissed her chastely.

"Ask me to, please ask me to." He begged sharply.

"Please... come inside me."

"Aw, fuck, fuck." He rutted harder into her and she hung onto his shoulders as he fucked her to her bliss and he followed moments after.

Pumping his come inside her little pussy, fully marking her, _branding_ her.

John's legs nearly gave out on him. He breathed hard against her and she released him, letting her arms fall numbly at her sides. He gently placed her back on her feet, tucking himself back into his jeans, buckling his belt.

Molly leaned against the wall of the building for support and straightened her clothing, fixing her underwear which immediately dampened against her womanhood.

"I- I'm sorry." John said and she began to walk away from him. The rain became heavier. She didn't turn back to look at him but she stopped a few feet away.

"I'm a whore, aren't I? I love him and I let you... I let you-" She stopped herself, keeping her back to him. John didn't try going after her this time.

"You're not a whore, Molly." John said to her, the rain continued to pour, becoming burdensome.

"Goodbye... John." She said before walking down the sidestreet. Little did she know that John followed her home anyway, making sure she got there safely.

X

Rayburn was thoroughly surprised by what he saw. He had to stop himself from laughing.

"She gets around, Sherlock," he joked to his sleeping half brother. He had a drone follow the Captain and learned his name was John Watson and after a little surveillance found out he was Sherlock's partner.

"My, my, you really know how to pick them, brother mine." Rayburn said placing the tablet at his side. He stood up and went to check Sherlock's vitals once more. He heard a groan but thought nothing of it.

Sherlock's limbs had been updated and had been returned to his body. He still wouldn't be conscious for another ten hours, maybe more.

Rayburn took a sip from his coffee cup and tapped a few commands at the monitors.

"I mean, she just melted into him. He's your friend right? Some guy, really looks out for his friends," Rayburn continued laughing, completely unaware that his brother's eyes were flickering open and closed.

"If she spreads it that easily for you and your friend maybe I should give it a try. Then Mycroft!"

Sherlock was once again unsure of where exactly he was but he recognized Rayburn's voice.

"Here let's superimpose it shall we? We're all alone, got plenty of time to kill." Rayburn said and he plugged the tablet into the computer monitor, it blew up five times it size.

Sherlock blinked as he tried to focus on what exactly he was seeing. He quickly deduced that Rayburn thought he was unconscious hence his queer way of talking.

When his eyes finally did focus it was only on one thing.

John Watson and Molly... _his Molly_! Together, it was dark, it was... it was going to make him sick.

Sherlock felt his fists clenched.

"Shit, Captain has got great stamina. Mycroft shouldn't keep things from me, I like knowing. And seeing, seeing is always better. Look at him just fuck the living daylights out of her-"

And that was the time Sherlock punched his brother in the face, knocking his glasses off and nearly breaking his jaw.

"Shut up." He rasped. Sherlock glanced around the room at the different screens, the different x-rays. He glared at the recording of John and Molly fucking like animals in an alley somewhere. He paused it and deleted it. There would time to question that later.

The shock was still very much real.

There was a video that was listed as Procedure 10, Sherlock Holmes. He would always regret pressing play.

 **AN: Hey guys! I'm back from vacation, I watched Doctor Strange (again, saw it in theaters) loved it of course! I hope you're enjoying the story still! And to all those who hoped Molly would get pregnant, well, sorry to squash your hopes. I really don't think Sherlock can conceive babies anymore but I also hope it answers one question why someone isn't. I hope to hear from you guys soon! Thank you so much for your support. Love you tons! 3**


	15. CHAPTER FOURTEEN: One of the Four Beasts

WARNING: for mild violence!

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

One of the Four Beasts...

John Watson didn't know what time it was when he finally forced himself to go home.

After his encounter with Molly he took to wandering the lonely and deserted streets and sectors. He thought about a lot of things; things that didn't matter, things he regretted, people he had killed who haunted him daily. He thought about Molly... and inevitably that would lead him to think about Sherlock.

John felt scummy, he detested himself. He had slept with married women before, women who had boyfriends, it hadn't really mattered in the past.

The other men hadn't mattered. And they hadn't mattered because in the end he knew those women didn't love their men.

But John knew better with Molly, he knew when he looked into her eyes when she spoke of Sherlock that she loved him.

It agonized him when he thought of her saying that she loved Sherlock.

Maybe the girl didn't know why or understand what the word meant but John had seen that look before.

The look was pain and yearning and despair and hope. Because that's what love did to you.

It completed you and then tore everything in your world apart, reducing you to an infantile state of nothingness.

 _No matter how hard they tried they could never condition us not to love,_ John thought.

He sighed deeply and rubbed his tired face and remembered he was in the elevator that ascended him to his apartment.

The moment John stood in front of his door he knew something was wrong.

John thought he heard a loud bell tolling for him...

The welcome matt was askew, just slightly, no one else would have noticed.

The door was still shut and locked securely. He could run or stay.

 _To hell with it,_ he thought dangerously. He didn't really care what happened when he opened that door. He casually stepped through as if he hadn't noticed the welcome matt at all.

The apartment was still dark and he went about his normal routine, however a quick scan of the room concluded that nothing else was out of place.

Except... he smelt something strange. Something metallic, like hot metal. He didn't see any smoke so there was no fire.

"You need better security." A familiar voice spoke from the darkness of the kitchen.

John closed his eyes for a moment and released a shaky breath. He wasn't afraid. He was fucking ashamed.

 _The Devil has come to call,_ he thought.

"Sherlock," John said like a prayer and he pressed a hand over his eyes as he felt himself begin to sob.

A single, small light came on.

"I know, John, I know _everything_." Sherlock said through clenched teeth. John nodded and wiped his face. He couldn't look at him; nothing was the same.

It would be like looking at Irene and John couldn't believe that Sherlock was anything like her. He wasn't! He was _more_ than Irene. And yet...

 _Is he still human?_ John thought sadly.

"Your brother told you?" John asked still staring at the floor like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

He heard movement and knew Sherlock was standing closer but still far enough away that he wasn't a physical threat, unless he had a weapon.

"No." Sherlock replied in a clipped tone. "I woke up on a slab, gave me some real perspective, _friend_." Sherlock made sure the last word was like a knife in the back.

John took a deep breath and headed towards the coffee maker, trying to keep himself from shaking too much.

"I didn't know until tonight, Sherlock, I swear." John said, he made coffee with trembling hands, enough for two...

Yeah, he was ashamed but he felt something deeper than that too, fear. He was afraid of Sherlock.

 _He's half robot, does he need coffee?_ He randomly thought.

"That I do believe," Sherlock said.

John could hear the Watcher moving around the room, maybe he was looking at the posters or awards or maybe he was trying to decide the best way to blow his head off.

Close range at the temple? Back of the head like the murdered Watchers, execution style? In the face? Maybe Sherlock would shoot him in the gut and let him really suffer.

 _At least he doesn't know about-_

"Molly Hooper." Sherlock suddenly said as if reading his mind and in John's frazzled state he dropped the coffee scoop on the counter at the mention of that sweet matron.

"Your maid? What about her?" John asked, knowing he had already shot himself in the foot. Sherlock wasn't stupid.

Arrogant, late, annoying and proud but never stupid.

"I saw you together!" Sherlock suddenly shouted, raising his hand and slamming it down on the counter, a large chunk of the tile countertop broke apart instantly, scattering across the floorboards in plumes of dust.

John pulled his gun out of instinct, pointing it directly at Sherlock's forehead, the Watcher was closer than the Captain originally thought and he mentally kicked himself for being so careless.

 _Never trust a Watcher,_ he reminded himself.

However, with a gun in his hand, John was surprisingly calm but Sherlock had other ideas.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock suddenly reached out, and snatched the gun and knocked John off balance and the Captain fell back, landing in a kitchen chair.

"Don't be stupid. I'm not going to kill you." Sherlock said annoyingly.

John had never seen man move so quick- but then, Sherlock wasn't entirely a man.

It was Sherlock's turn to point a gun at him.

"I thought you said you weren't going to kill me?" John said half heartedly.

Despite being half human, despite having copper wiring, circuit boards, a motherboard and half a fucking titanium brain Sherlock was shaking and breathing heavily.

 _How does any of that work?_ John thought, staring at his partner and almost friend in wonder.

" _Five minutes_." Sherlock hissed heavily and he pulled up a chair to sit across from John.

"What?" John asked, confused.

 _Five minutes to live, talk, breathe...?_

"You fucked her for _five_ minutes, almost exactly." Sherlock said, twisting the metaphorical knife harder and harder into John.

John realized he was finally looking at Sherlock. He still looked the same, a little rough around the edges but that was to be expected.

Sherlock gulped and lowered the gun and John released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

It wasn't the first time a gun had been pointed at John but it was the first time he was absolutely unsure of whether or not the trigger would be pulled.

"How did you find out?" John asked.

"Rayburn had you followed by a drone. Some spy you are, can't even notice when you're being tailed." Sherlock mocked and it didn't hurt John's feelings, his guard had been down, he hadn't been paying attention to anything except Molly.

 _Not the first time a woman got you in trouble,_ that flinty voice reminded him playfully.

"I didn't plan this-"

"Don't lie to me." Sherlock warned dangerously, his hand still gripping the gun tightly that now rested on his thigh.

John held his gaze and nodded.

"So you did plan it. Even after discovering she and I... were together." Sherlock said, finally losing composer for a moment when mentioning Molly.

"I wanted it to happen but I didn't plan on us-"

"Fucking in an alley where anyone could see you?"

"You make it sound very sleazy." John said and instantly regretted it, cringing at his own words and having to eat them.

"Oh, I am, aren't I? Okay, John, I can clean this up for you-"

"-Sherlock please-"

"-you made passionate love under the stars against a majestic brown stone, is that better?"

Sherlock stood and began pacing like a caged animal. He even looked like one.

A beast trying to claw it's way out, trapped, ready to bite it's own foot off to survive.

"Where's Doctor Holmes now?" John asked and he gestured to Sherlock's hands. That one mechanical hand hidden under a black leather glove, the other ungloved.

Like Sherlock was trying to hide a handicap.

"Oh, he'll wake up eventually. I wouldn't kill my own brother, sadly." Sherlock said sneeringly.

"Sherlock, I know it means nothing but... I'm sorry." John said defeatedly. He didn't know what else to say. He didn't feel good about any of it.

Sherlock thought about the different ways he could kill John. He could easily throw him out the window, shoot him, strangle him, cut him into little pieces...

But he knew he wouldn't. He still owed John his life. The Captain had risked his own life pulling him out of the NLD.

Captain John Watson was the closest thing to a friend he had. And more importantly, an ally.

And of course, there was still the matter of the murdered Watchers... the "wake-up" for someone. And Sherlock was beginning to think that wake-up had been meant for him.

But who in the NLD would know of his... condition? The junkie had mentioned a big boss knew, at the time he had assumed that meant Moriarty.

But what if he had been wrong? What if the boss was someone else?

"I forgive you." Sherlock said and he held the gun out to John.

The other man hesitated before taking the weapon.

"Mycroft will send people after you." John said and Sherlock nodded and then shrugged.

"Big brothers, am I right?" He joked but the pain was still there. He had forgiven him in words but had he forgiven him on the inside, in the ways that really mattered?

John knew he would never forgive himself.

"Come on, John, I know who we need to go see and it won't be easy. I'm a wanted man now." Sherlock said in a strangely proud sort of way. He headed for the door and John followed but stopped for a moment.

"Sherlock, you should go to her." John told him and the Watcher paused, his hand wrapped around the doorknob, trying his best not to crush it.

"I can't, John. It's better this way."

"Better for who?" John asked him incredulously.

Sherlock sighed deeply and turned his face a little, a tear forming.

"For everyone. I'm not good enough for her, not a real man and that's she needs. She's young and infatuated. It'll fade-"

"She loves you, you fucking moron!" John exclaimed and for a moment he worried Sherlock had short-circuited or blew a fuse because now the man wasn't moving or blinking or breathing.

"She- _we_ \- made a mistake together, it wasn't just one or the other. But she's out there, she's scared and she... she fucking loves you. I heard her say it. I didn't matter in those five minutes, Sherlock, it wasn't even me. It'll always be you.

And yeah, you're not a whole man, barely human barely machine. But don't let her go, mate, don't you dare let her go. Not like this."

John tucked the gun into his belt, resting it against his back and covering it over with his jacket.

Sherlock seemed to come back from his crash and he simply nodded curtly.

John wasn't sure if his words had gotten through to Sherlock, he hoped they did.

Whatever they were about to head out and do they might not come back from it.

And the Captain knew from personal experience that you have an obligation, a duty to tell the ones you love that you love them.

No matter how hard it would be, you don't want to waste your life wishing you had.

"They'll be watching the building." John said as they exited the apartment. The Watcher nodded and they headed towards the stairs and to the basement.

"These old buildings have tunnels underneath them, connects most of the sectors together." Sherlock explained.

"Won't they be watching those too?" John asked, Sherlock nodded.

"Of course. But there will be less of them. By my estimates I believe we'll run into at least four Watchers."

"That's four too many."

"But you forget John," Sherlock said with a grin. "You have me!"

X

 _Hidden faces, men walking with the shadows_ becoming _the shadows. Faceless, you will become the poison, the knife and the bullet. Smother the wicked, defuse the bomb, kill the fire, extinguish the light... allow the world to fall away from you._

X

Janine woke up to find the bed still empty. She sighed and sat up.

It was still dark in the room, the curtains were drawn. Strange, she never woke before the sun. She ran a hand over her stomach, still flat and empty. She yawned and walked tiredly to the bathroom, smelling Sherlock's body wash lingering in the air. She used the toilet and returned to bed but couldn't find it in her to sleep.

 _Molly should be up soon,_ she thought decidedly.

Wrapped in her robe, unaware of the time or even aware of the day, she quietly tried to make her way to the servant's quarters until she stupidly realized she had no idea where that was.

 _Sherlock would've known,_ she thought.

Tip-toeing around the house in her bare feet and getting lost, what a way to end her night... begin her morning?

Janine yawned again and continued wandering. She wasn't afraid and she was quite surprised to find herself so calm and relaxed. She went into rooms she hadn't been in before and opened books in the library that smelt of mold and dust.

And Janine wondered why she hadn't ever walked these halls before or gone inside these rooms. It was as if Sherlock had gated and corralled her into the same five rooms their whole marriage.

What was so secret?

Janine came to a room that looked like a study and she entered with confidence. She was sure he wouldn't be home anytime soon. She opened the drawers to find them sparse, she tried turning on his computer but it was password protected.

"Boring." She said to herself.

Janine sat at the desk for a minute, pretending she was Sherlock, tapping away at the computer keyboard and giggling girlishly to herself before rising, trying to figure out what she would do next.

It was then that Janine felt something she couldn't quite describe but it sent a queer chill down her spine and made the itty bitty hairs on the back of her neck stand on edge. She wrapped her robe tighter around herself and looked around the room, suddenly cold and suddenly aware.

It wasn't like the time she had snuck into her parents bedroom and had been caught by the housekeeper, it was something else...

 _Am I being watched?_ She thought.

Janine, against her better judgement, decided to investigate even though every atom in her body was telling her otherwise.

 _Run away, find help_ they told her. But she couldn't. She explored further and what she saw horrified her.

For the last thing Janine saw before she blacked out was the decapitated body of the butler leaning bizarrely against the wall near a window.

X

Sherlock and John did not encounter the Watchers as he had predicted. They moved silently and stealthily through the tunnels until the Watcher stopped them at one access point.

"Underground access tunnel to Station 4." Sherlock quietly informed John.

There would be cameras beyond this point but not before the power box. With a small tool kit Sherlock disabled the cameras, informing John they had about thirty minutes.

"You told me you thought Irene knew something," Sherlock whispered as they slowly walked through the vacant halls of Station 4.

John nodded.

"I believe we'll find what we're looking for in her as well." Sherlock went on.

"How do you know she'll be here?" John asked.

"If she's as attached as you say she won't power down with the other androids. She'll be where, as you said, her new normal would go." Sherlock replied knowingly.

They came to Sherlock's office door, a warm blue light was omitted from the small crack at the bottom of the doorway.

"What if she's been altered since you became a fugitive?" John asked, a little more nervously than he had liked.

"We'll have to risk it."

"It'll be locked." John said and Sherlock shook his head.

"No. With the androids there's no need for further security." The Watcher replied.

Slowly and carefully, Sherlock turned the doorknob.

And sitting there, like a strange lifelike doll, was Irene behind Sherlock's desk exactly where he believed she would be. Her eyes were not closed giving John a fright before realizing she wasn't "awake".

John looked at his watch. They had eighteen minutes left.

"What are you doing?" John asked as he watched Sherlock roll up his sleeve.

"If I'm anything like Irene, I have a cable port." He said and he began pushing down on his false wrist in various places.

Eventually there was a small beep and part of his wrist slid open to reveal little flashing lights, wires... anything other than blood, muscle, bone and vein.

Sherlock let out a small gasp, as if he weren't expecting it at all, as if this were the moment he would wake from an awful nightmare.

John felt his heart clench. The Watcher only gazed at the lights for a moment, taking in the realization that he was indeed not entirely human.

"So strange," Sherlock whispered, almost to himself, "I was conditioned my whole life to... to be anything other than human. To be _more_ than human, more than a man. And now that I seem to have reached that goal I find myself strangely... John, what am _I_ now?" His eyes met John's and they were filled with tears.

John didn't know what to say. He had no answers. He couldn't even shrug!

Perhaps Sherlock didn't really need an answer, maybe he just needed to say these things. To get them all out before he choked on them.

Sherlock blinked away the tears and cleared his throat, trying to regain his composer, and yet the crestfallen look remained upon his face.

"I apologize." He said dismally.

"Don't." John told him.

Sherlock opened a desk drawer and removed a small cable, inserting one end into Irene's port and the other into his own. He began searching through her memory banks and the information crashed into him like a brain freeze.

"Oh, my." Was all he could say. John stood by him.

"What's wrong? What do you see?" John asked him quickly, fearing his partner might collapse, so much so that he had to prop Sherlock up.

"Maybe you woke up too soon." John said worriedly. Sherlock shook his head and held up his hand.

"It's just... so much information. I'm trying to search through it but it's difficult." Sherlock told him, he sounded pained.

John waited.

Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw Irene's finger move... he shook the thought away, it was just nerves. They were racing against the clock, against Watchers, against an android that could rip him in half, against whatever mystery the murdered Watchers held.

Then he thought he saw it move again... now he believed he was not being paranoid. She was waking up.

"Sherlock." John said quickly but the other man was too busy trying to download or extract whatever information Irene might have. Sherlock gasped and then groaned.

"What?" John asked impatiently, her fingers were definitely moving. "She's waking up, Sherlock."

"I know, I know! I'm almost there. One more thing." Sherlock gritted out.

The whole fucking hand was moving now, flexing and unflexing. Then the other hand...

"Got it." Sherlock said triumphantly. He disconnected himself from Irene only to look up just as John was knocked across the room.

The Irene stood tall and began advancing on John.

"Irene, stop!" Sherlock ordered. Irene paused mid step and turned to face her master.

"Intruders." Irene said emotionlessly and mechanically.

John groaned and pulled his gun but his hands were shaking and he didn't want to hit Sherlock. He deduced the Watcher would most likely be able to survive a bullet wound but couldn't risk it, his whole arm felt numb.

"Irene, I order you to stand down." Sherlock said firm, disciplinary voice.

Irene tilted her head to the side.

"You have betrayed your cause, Fugitive." Irene said.

"Irene, you remember me. You care about-

"I care for nothing." Irene cut in but Sherlock shook his head.

"You haven't killed me yet, that means something." He told her.

Irene seemed to think for a moment, processing what he had just said.

John gripped the wall as he pulled himself up. She definitely broke a couple ribs when she hit him.

"I am not programmed to care." She said firmly.

"Irene, you will not kill me or John Watson."

"I have been ordered to kill you." She told him.

"By who?" He asked even though he already knew, her brain had told him everything.

Irene seemed to almost smirk.

"Classified." She answered and it was Sherlock's turn to smile and then it slowly faded.

"I'm sorry, Irene." Sherlock said sadly.

"I will kill you." Irene said simply and began advancing on Sherlock again. John raised his gun again and was on the brink of firing when Irene suddenly fell to her knees and began convulsing. Sherlock knelt down beside her and placed her head in his lap, as if trying to comfort her.

John limped towards him.

"What's happening?" John asked, almost out of breath.

"I gave her a virus." Sherlock replied, not looking at John, looking only to Irene.

John sighed.

"She's-"

"I... I..." Irene stammered, her voice reaching a high pitch then dropping then meeting in the middle again.

Her eyes blinking rapidly, not together, one after the other. Her face twitched strangely, her lips curled back into a snarl and then resumed it's normal muted and monotone mask.

"I'm so, so sorry Irene." Sherlock said sincerely and he took her hand in his.

Irene seemed to hold his hands as well, though her grip was weak and slack.

John was reminded of the time they spoke together, just the two of them...

" _Humans touch, they show affection through touch. It feels human..."_ she had once said.

"I am... dead-dying, dying, dying, dyingdying-" She stammered again and again. Sherlock nodded and held her as gently as he could, offering comfort to a being that did not require it but had been learning to want it.

Sherlock felt something pass between himself and Irene. She had been learning what it was like to be human while he had tried to escape it his whole life. He envied her in an abnormal sort of way.

And he pitied her at the same time. He had been forced to take her life, a life that could have meant something.

 _Is this how I'll go?_ He thought sadly to himself.

"Why?" Irene asked looking into Sherlock's eyes.

"Because I killed you." He said to her and she shook her head, more like rolled it around on her neck until it flopped and her body stopped moving, only her eyes seemed to give an impression she was still alive.

"Is-this what... dying feels like?" She asked him and it broke John's heart. He wished she would just let go, stop fighting the virus and shut down.

It didn't make sense, there were hundreds of Irene Adler models but he had known this one. She had been unique even if she had been designed and programmed to be just like the others.

And this Irene would never be remembered by anyone except the two men in that room.

"Yes, Irene," Sherlock said gently. "Now go to sleep."

"I can not see you anymore. Systems failing... attempt at reboot failed... fading... sleep..." She repeated and Sherlock nodded. "Sleep... sleep... slee... _p_. **Sleep**."

John knew when she was gone. Even in an android the light leaves them.

Sherlock gently lowered her back to the floor and he sighed deeply, grieving in his own way at Irene's passing. He had not wanted to do it but he knew there would have been no other way. He knew he now possessed strength greater than a human but he was still weak.

John was right, he had woken up too soon.

"There was no other way we would've gotten out." John said helping Sherlock to stand.

Sherlock didn't reply. John checked his watch. They had ten minutes to get out.

"What did you find out?" John asked him. "Do you know who killed the Watchers?"

Sherlock was about to speak when bright lights flashed in front of their eyes and they both immediately ducked for cover under desks, pulling out their guns.

"Going somewhere, Holmes?" The eerie and irritating voice of Watcher Anderson called out.

Sherlock groaned disgustedly.

"Really? They sent _you_!" He yelled and then the barrage of gunfire began.

John curled himself into a small ball under the desk and kept still as did Sherlock.

The gunfire eventually stopped.

John deduced there were at least four shooters, just as Sherlock had predicted there would be.

"I've got orders to put you down," Anderson said and the two men both heard footsteps.

Two of the four Watchers were coming from the other direction now, trying to flank them.

Sherlock gestured silently and John nodded, taking a position facing that direction while Sherlock faced the other way.

"My brother wouldn't like that." Sherlock responded, he looked through one of the bullet holes that just missed his head and could see Anderson coming closer.

"These orders go above your brother, all the way out into orbit." Anderson said with a stupid chuckle and Sherlock smirked and then began laughing, which only infuriated Anderson more.

"What's so funny?" Anderson grumbled.

"Oh, just your stupidity and thank you for confirming what I already knew." Sherlock replied.

"I'm not stupid!" Anderson shouted.

"Then why am I about to kill you?" Was the last thing Anderson heard before Sherlock pulled the trigger of his gun and Anderson dropped.

"One down three to go." John said to himself.

A leg appeared in his field of his vision from where he was crouched.

John kicked the leg hard and heard bone snap, the Watcher howled in pain and went down hard and he pulled the trigger killing the Watcher, they were dead as soon as they hit the floor with a bullet lodged into their head.

"You two let us leave and we won't kill you." John said trying to bargain, his eyes still on the dead Watcher. He didn't want anymore blood on his hands. The Watcher he had just killed gazed back at him with dead eyes, a younger man in his mid twenties.

Just a fucking kid.

 _Watchers never live long,_ he reminded himself.

"We?" Sherlock mouthed at him and John rolled his eyes.

"Come on, you're scared and alone and we're better than you." John said, in an almost comforting tone. Sherlock and John waited for a moment with bated breath.

"Alright. You've got two minutes before the cameras come back on!" A young voice called and John nodded to himself, relieved.

"Then get your asses out of here." John told them and they did.

When they both felt it was safe they stood and regrouped. Sherlock looked down at Anderson's dead body, part of his head missing.

"Finally laid to rest," Sherlock said in a darkly amused voice.

"What did you mean when Anderson said the orders came from orbit?" John asked. The two men took the dead Watchers ammo.

"There's only one person more powerful than my brother who lives in orbit." Sherlock told him as they quickly made their way out of the building.

They headed for the garage to commandeer a car.

"Not... the Cardinal, Sherlock? _The_ Cardinal?" John asked as Sherlock hotwired the car but had John drive and the Captain didn't ask him how he knew how to do that.

Maybe it was in the Watcher handbook, right next to kill your partner before he kills you.

Sherlock shrugged.

"Seems so." He replied as if it weren't anything at all.

"We're not... I mean, we're not going to kill the Cardinal?" John said with a nervous laugh however Sherlock was not laughing, and John kept his eyes on the road and making sure they weren't being followed, but his laughter subsided into a cold sweat.

"Jesus-fucking-Christ, Sherlock!" John exclaimed and he nearly pulled over.

"John, he's the one. He's the one pulling all the strings. And I've been after this one for a long time." Sherlock said and he told John all about how he had come so close to getting Magnusson before but couldn't because of Mycroft.

"I'm remembering John," Sherlock said, he looked out the window at the empty city streets. "I jumped off a roof and died- or nearly died. Mycroft brought me back for a reason. I need to know why."

"Maybe he just loves you." John suggested and Sherlock scoffed but said nothing.

John was becoming more and more convinced the Cardinal needed to be taken out but were they really the right people to do it?

An emotionally unstable and war crippled soldier and a half man-thing.

John gulped but his mouth was suddenly dry.

"The Cardinal told Mycroft he wanted to see me. Well, now is his chance. We need transport." Sherlock said finally.

"That won't be easy." John said and Sherlock chuckled.

"John, we've just stolen the car of a Watcher. You've no idea what it's in that trunk." Sherlock told him.

Little did either man know, as they drove like bats out of hell to a transport leaving for the _Aquitaine,_ that Mrs. Janine Holmes and Molly Hooper were already high above their heads, waiting...


	16. CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Come and See and I Saw

WARNING: for violence and abuse.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Come and See and I Saw...

Sherlock's confidence had been hectic, liberating, exciting and very, very... misplaced.

Perhaps it was the fact that the now former Watcher had woken too soon from his Dream Status, perhaps it was the thrill of the chase that clouded his judgement, it could have been a number of things.

But John Watson knew now that they were in deep and serious shit.

Because as it were, they were locked in a penitentiary transport ship bound for the foreboding orbital spacecraft, the _Aquitaine._

 _Home of Cardinal Magnusson, the most powerful man on earth and in space,_ John had thought as they flew across the stars.

The journey took six hours and there was no time for sleep, not for him at least.

Sherlock had come willingly when their- _his_ \- plan to sneak aboard a supply ship failed.

And the former Watcher had good reason to come quietly when he was informed they had something of his the Cardinal knew he held dear to him.

There had been no glorious gunfight, no throwing of any kind of fists.

A simply raise of their arms over their heads and a short walk to the ship that would take them to their fate.

They were not separated as John thought they might've been.

The two men were seated across from each other, extra tungsten carbide handcuffs for Sherlock.

John was not idle, he had counted all possible escape options. His companion however seemed to be... snoring.

John knew it was completely delusional but he almost felt like Sherlock was provoking him by just carelessly dozing as they were taken to their doom. And it was Sherlock-fucking-Holmes, yet again, who was dragging him into such terrible dangers.

With his unbound leg he kicked Sherlock in the shin and the other man hissed and groggily awoke from his slumber.

"Why in the name of god-"

"You're an asshole." John snapped.

Sherlock had the balls to actually gape at him!

"Me?"

"Yes, you, you fucking prick. A transfer, that's all I wanted and now-"

"Hey, shut up back there!" Their guard yelled from down the corridor.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, ignoring the warning they had both received.

"And all I wanted was to solve a case." Sherlock said childishly.

"Good job you did."

"Hey, I said shut up!" The guard yelled again.

The two men sat in stubborn silence, like small children fighting over a toy only for mummy to put them both in the corner.

"You don't think there were things _I_ wanted." Sherlock said faintly, looking at the floor.

John decided he didn't care and he wouldn't listen, but that didn't mean Sherlock would stop talking. He didn't care what Sherlock wanted. The former soldier and spy wanted to sulk in his misery, he wanted to feel sorry for himself. No one else was. This wasn't about Sherlock.

 _Isn't everything?_ He thought mutely.

"I wanted things," Sherlock went on. "Stupid, small things that people like me shouldn't want or don't get to have. I wanted far away, a place that was mine. I wanted my..."

John couldn't help himself, he sighed.

"What did you want?" John asked calmly. The other man glanced up, almost embarrassed.

"There was a moment," Sherlock began. "When I was with Molly, after we had- well, I held her and all I wanted was for us to be a family. A _real_ family, John. That's something I've never wanted with Janine. I've always detested the idea of being a father. But that sweet girl- _my girl_ \- made me yearn for something I had never in my wildest fantasies imagined."

John bit his lip as he stubbornly could empathise to everything Sherlock had said.

The words were different than what he himself would say but they still carried the same weight, the same definition, the same plight that John felt within himself every day.

A yearning, a festering feeling of longing, loneliness and the desire to belong.

It needled away at a person until they would burst into madness or rage or a simpering, whimpering fool.

"I had a woman once," John found himself saying. "A long time ago. I lost her and my whole life fell to pieces. It was my fault that she- uh- that she... died."

Sherlock listened as he felt it was respectful, appropriate and only right that he should listen when John had listened to his own confession. Because wasn't that all they had left now? Confess their sins, their darkest secrets in their last hours of life and freedom.

"She died and it was my fault. I refused to go on a mission without her, I needed her by my side and now," John paused as he broke down. "Now my side is empty because of my selfishness and she haunts me, Sherlock. I see her everywhere... I had to abandon her in that horrid place and they-"

Sherlock leaned forward as much as he could, John couldn't even wipe away his own tears.

"It's okay," Sherlock said comfortingly. "I'm here."

John took a deep breath and sobbed and hard as he might try, he couldn't stop now.

"I said shut up, damn it!" The guard yelled again but it was becoming harder and harder for John to control himself.

Sherlock tried consoling his partner but it was no use. He noticed the guard coming towards them, clad in black body armor and carrying a rather large and imposing weapon.

"Wait, wait he's just having a moment." Sherlock tried to explain but the guard just punched Sherlock across the face before turning his attention to John.

The mechanical man grimaced and groaned at the impact, he might've been half man but he could still feel pain; they hadn't replaced his head.

"Quiet, traitor!" The guard shouted at John and he kicked him hard and the soldier grunted and leaned forward towards the man's legs and began dry heaving.

"Let him be." Sherlock groaned.

Suddenly John lurched up, his hands somehow free, and propelled a knife into the guard's jugular, sending a spurt of blood across the soldier's face and painting the wall in red plasma.

Sherlock felt the blood splatter across his own face but he wasn't as covered as John.

The man gurgled on his own blood and tried reaching up to stop John but he had been too caught off guard and began sagging as the blood rushed out of him like a torrid river. Sherlock noted how John never broke eye contact with the man as he lowered him slowly to the floor, a hand over the man's mouth to keep him quiet.

When the man was dead and gone John limped over to Sherlock and unbound his hands.

"How did you-"

"I was a spy, remember?" John said.

Looking at John now, outlined in dark blood, the stars behind him and earth even further away, Sherlock realized how far he had pushed John.

The man had been looking for peace, just as he himself had been, and in return he covered his partner's hands in more blood.

 _I'm sorry,_ Sherlock wanted to say.

"Someone will notice he hasn't reported back." Sherlock said instead and John nodded and with a hand wiped the blood from his face and then wrung his hands on his jeans, the blue of the denim fading into dark crimson.

X

When Molly woke she was alone and it was dark. She wasn't in her bedroom she knew that. She was someone far away, she was floating, she was falling, she was... she heard something.

A low hum, almost soothing in a bizarre way until it wasn't.

The girl staggered to her feet and hugged her arms to herself. The floor was cold and there was so little light.

"Hello?" She asked the darkness, half expecting a foreboding voice to return her cry.

As if the darkness could talk...

 _Where is Mr. Holmes?_ Was her first thought. She had not seen him or heard of or from him since he had his... whatever happened to him.

Mrs. Hudson had rushed her out so quickly and then Captain Watson... her shame returned, her guilt.

There had been a time when she longed for Mr. Holmes to shame her with his desire and she wallowed in it wantoningly. She had drunk from his debauched cup and savored the taste.

But this was a different shame. She had betrayed him though she had made no promise to him and he had never made any such sentiments to her.

And yet there had been some quiet understanding between; a silent vow made in their intimate moments.

A look, a touch, a confidential contract they had both signed and sealed with their bodies.

 _Was it enough?_ She thought dismally.

"Hello?" She called again with no answer to soothe her.

 _Where am I?_ She thought.

The hum was unfamiliar and growing more and more frightening on a primordial scale.

An unabashed, queasy feeling of certain dread swept through her. Her brain was telling her to panic, to run and find a way out. But how could she when there was no light to guide her?

If ever there were a time she wanted to be saved it was now. She could not do it alone. How could she navigate the darkness that seemed to have swallowed her whole without a guide?

And almost naturally in these moments of confusion and terror she imagined a monster coming for her, lurking somewhere in the obsidian darkness, looming all around ready to gobble her up.

 _Papa,_ she thought sadly.

Yes, she wanted Mr. Holmes by her, with her, near her, anywhere that could give her some semblance he was still alive, some reassurance he had not died in her bed.

But it was her father's face, appearing like a knight with the flames of battle at his back and the blood of the evil dragon on his sword and shield that took shape in her mind's eye.

The comfort only a father could give.

" _Don't cry my darling girl, my little Smiling Star,"_ he had called her when her nightmares of the Dark Beast came to paralyze her with fear at night.

The way in which he held her, rocking her little body with his larger one, the way his hands had looked... so rough and pale. He had never failed to slay all her dragons. He had never failed to come home... until one day, he didn't.

"Papa." She gulped through her tears.

" _You must be brave, Smiling Star. You must see the light even when all lights go out."_ He would say to her and then he would speak in his homeland's tongue and she would giggle and beg him to teach her the words but he would shake his head.

" _Those are not words you will need to know."_ He said sweetly though she would be disappointed in his reply. " _Remember, Smiling Star, one day you will be alone but do not fear the loneliness. For in those moments you will realize your courage."_

Molly bit back the rest of her tears and swallowed her fear, though her body still shook.

 _I will be brave,_ she thought decidedly. _If I cannot see in the dark I will become the dark._

X

When the penitentiary transport made contact with the _Aquitaine_ it was successful, mostly due to John holding a gun to the head of the pilot.

Dressed in the uniforms and armor gear as the guards they assumed the helmets to their facade as they knew their faces would be recognized immediately. Both men knew eventually they would need to take them off but until then they remained securely attached.

"This is insane." John whispered through the mic to Sherlock.

The _Aquitaine_ was a behemoth, it's open maw had swallowed the little transport ship and John had once again felt that uneasy feeling that only doom awaited them.

They approached the Captain at Arms and Sherlock handed him the manifesto.

"Six prisoners on board ready for transfer." He stated simply, altering his voice. The Captain at Arms looked over the manifesto, Sherlock read his face.

The man was in his mid forties, a lifer of the military and his face was slightly altered by his years in orbit in faux gravity. He was unmarried, former smoker, drinker and impotent.

The Captain at Arms nodded curtly.

"Very well, Lieutenant, we'll take it from here." The Captain at Arms said handing the manifesto tablet off to his adjutant. "Check in for debriefing, find something in the mess hall and get some shut eye while we refuel the ship."

Sherlock and John nodded and followed the blue line on the floor towards the locker rooms and sleeping quarters, only to make a slight and important detour onto the red line.

"They'll find the bodies in the cargo hold eventually." John reminded him but Sherlock didn't give a response.

"We need to get to the archives, anything that might tell us where the Cardinal's personal chamber is." Sherlock told him instead.

"You've never been here?" John asked him and Sherlock shook his head.

"I've avoided it my whole life. The last time I saw the Cardinal in person it was at the Ten Year Prayer feast. It... didn't end well." Sherlock said to his companion.

"I've only seen him on the Network announcements. Strange to think we're really here." John commented.

"Don't let the luxury of this place fool you, John. It's a charade, all a mask to hide what really goes on here." Sherlock said to him knowingly.

With a little stealth and very convincing acting they found their way to not actually the archives but the next best thing: an information kiosk.

It didn't give them exactly what they needed but it gave them a rough estimate and idea, it was enough for Sherlock to deduce the rest.

Sherlock deduced that the Cardinal was hold up in a section of the ship called Appledore.

"Why do you think he'll be there?" John asked him.

"It just... makes sense. It feels right." Sherlock replied.

John frowned, was Sherlock Holmes now following his intuition?

"You're going by feeling instead of logic? What kind wiring do you have?" John found himself saying jokingly and to his surprise he heard Sherlock chuckle.

"Despite my feelings towards my younger brother, he is a very good scientist."

"Do you think he's working for the Cardinal?" John asked, he had been thinking it since Sherlock told him that Rayburn had sent a drone to follow him.

Sherlock shook his head.

"No. Rayburn is many things, a voyeur is at the top of the list, but he's loyal to the family." Sherlock told him convincingly.

" _Good afternoon, Aquitaine family,"_ a female voice came on over a speaker, her voice was soft and programmed, " _It is a good day to be alive. Remember the Cardinal Rules, the Cardinal is your friend. Be calm, rested, eat well and stay hydrated. And remember to watch over your fellow man. It is 12:00 PM and the Cardinal wishes you a pleasant day."_

John felt an eerie chill pass over him.

The disembodied voice flitted away and went on about weather on earth, a meteor shower was expected, the moon would be full and visible on the starboard side of the ship and would be best in the public mess hall where all were welcome to view it.

Sherlock and John entered the lift that would take them to Appledore.

Inside Sherlock used a frequency in his radio to scramble the security cameras, causing them to malfunction for a few minutes, giving them time to shed their suits, retaining the lightweight but durable body armor.

"We'll encounter obstacles as soon as they realize what we left behind." Sherlock warned John as they waited for the lift doors to open, the little bell ticking down like the bell tolling for them, like Death's own little chant.

John shrugged and prepared his weapon.

"Little late to back out now." John said. "Look, Sherlock, in case we don't make it out-"

"I know, John. I forgive you." Sherlock said graciously. And this time John did truly believe him, inside and out.

"Soldiers today." John said strongly, the floors ticking closer and closer to their destination.

Sherlock straightened his back and took a deep breath.

"Soldiers.

The lift doors opened and it was then that Sherlock knew he had been right when deducing this was where the Cardinal would be and he wished he had been wrong.

The walls were not really walls... they were glass cages encased inside the walls.

John and Sherlock couldn't breathe. There were no guards, there were no security cameras (not that they could see), there was nothing except the glass cages.

And inside them made both men nearly drop their weapons in horror and disgust.

Inside each cage was a child ranging from various ages, but none could be older than eleven. And the hallway in which they lined the walls seemed to go on and on forever.

A chamber of tears.

Sherlock gritted his teeth, he had been right. He had always known he had been right but this... this was his proof. The proof in ragged, abused child flesh, in blood and bone and numb, dead eyes that stared at him.

"Sherlock," was all John could say. What else could he say?

"Come on." Sherlock said through clenched teeth, slowly moving down the narrow hallway. The children looked at the two men with their raised guns curiously.

Boys and girls, barely dressed, barely alive, gazing at them, pressing their hands to the glass.

"Now do you see?" Sherlock asked his partner, barely above a whisper. "Now do you see why I killed myself?"

John nodded and held back his emotions, his want and desire to break apart the glass.

But the children were becoming countless, a myriad of innocents crammed into a pedophile's perverted menagerie.

"How?" John asked.

"The NLD of course. The junkies sell their children to the highest bidder, even the _heroic_ resistance sells their own children to the Cardinal; the very evil they're trying to defeat. Every cause has hypocrites and heretics. Sadly, these are the martyrs, John. These are the spoils of war." Sherlock explained cynically.

"Jesus." John gasped.

At the end of the long corridor was a white door with the sideway cross of the Cardinal; it was in red and ran horizontally across the door.

"It could be a trick." John suggested and Sherlock shook his head.

"No. He would want to be near them. He'd want to have access to them no matter what. There's a trap door inside each room for him to enter." Sherlock said and he holstered his gun, feeling the door for booby-trap or fraud.

"We could knock." John said and Sherlock shot him a glare, this was no time for jokes.

"He doesn't deserve that courtesy." Sherlock snapped.

John understood and didn't take his partner's reaction personally.

It was all very, very sensitive and emotional. He regretted saying anything at all.

Sherlock placed his hand on the doorknob, unholstering his gun once more. John took aim, both men taking a deep breath as Sherlock began to slowly turn-

"Come in, Mr. Holmes." A soft, male voice called, startling them both and causing a gasp to leap it's way out of John's mouth. Sherlock stilled, sweat forming at his hairline and brow.

John gulped and his eyes shot to Sherlock.

"Well?" John said, feeling his own perspiration sweeping down his back.

"Damn it."

"What?"

"The element of surprise is lost." Sherlock said disappointedly.

"Now is really not the time for that, remember?" John said, gesturing with his head towards the glass cages.

Sherlock nodded and opened the door.

 **AN: thank you all once again for your amazing reviews, it means so much to me! I hope you're enjoying this still :) To be honest, it might feel like the story is coming to an end, and though I have it planned, I don't plan on ending it any time soon. I hope you're all having a great week with work, family, school or whatever it is you love to do, I hope you're able to do it. Also! I'm going to be moving on Thursday and will most likely be without internet for an indefinite amount of time so if I'm not posting as frequently then that's why 3 feel free to follow me on Tumblr, my username is intheruinsofhislove**


	17. CHAPTER SIXTEEN: And Behold a White

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

And Behold a White Horse

" _And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts_

 _And I looked and behold a pale horse_

 _And his name that sat on him was Death_

 _And Hell followed with him..."_

There are many moments in a man's life that shape his future; his birth, his childhood, his upbringing, his first kiss, his first heartbreak, his first fear of the dark...

The moment that shaped Sherlock Holmes into the man he was was the death of his childhood pet and companion, Redbeard.

 _Redbeard..._

A dog, long since dead, his body left in the basement of an abandoned house, his remains eaten away by time and left to rot and to turn to dust.

And yet, low and behold, there sat the same red dog from his youth.

" _Out of the way, boy!"_ Father had barked at him, taking aim with his gun, the boy that was Sherlock Holmes standing trembling in front of the dog.

The same dog of his youth sat, panting in a smiling sort of way that only dogs do, sat proudly and obediently at the feet of the august Cardinal Magnusson.

Sherlock's gun was still aimed high and appropriately but the breath had left his body.

John was unaware of the dog's significance.

In his eyes it was just a dog, a pet of the Cardinal's.

But to Sherlock it moved mountains.

"Welcome, Sherlock and John." Cardinal Magnusson said politely, gesturing with his hand, the other reached down to pat the Irish Setter's head gently, making direct eye contact with Sherlock as he did so.

Sherlock gripped his gun tighter as he felt the rage swarm through him like locust.

"It has come to this, hasn't it dear boy?" Magnusson said and he clicked his tongue disappointingly and removed his hand from the dog. "Did you like my nursery?"

John took an angry step forward but Sherlock reached out, still keeping his gun high, and clasped his partner's shoulder, holding him in place firmly.

John Watson was seething.

"You call it a nursery!" John shouted, spit flying from his mouth. He was chomping at the bit to end this miserable deviant.

Magnusson simply shrugged.

"What else would I call it? A zoo?" He chuckled like an old man talking about fishing. The burn on his face wrinkled and stretched with his every word.

"Do you like him, Sherlock?" Magnusson asked looking down at the dog.

Sherlock swallowed and when he didn't answer the old added, "He's so obedient. The children love him."

"Why did you have the Watchers killed?" Sherlock demanded.

Magnusson looked surprised, genuinely surprised.

"I thought that case was closed. What would I have to do with it?" Magnusson asked innocently.

"I had a tip. A big boss sent a wake-up call." Sherlock said, practically showing his hand. He was too emotional, too attached and too invested in the horrors he had just seen.

But Magnusson shook his head.

"Your brother told me it was closed therefore I believed it was. I have no idea what you're talking about, dear boy." Magnusson said in an eerily fatherly tone.

"You're under arrest." John said, using authority he didn't have in a place that was considered by many to be hallowed ground.

Magnusson actually laughed but that didn't surprise Sherlock however it did enrage John even more.

"Under arrest," Magnusson mocked. "He's so funny. You must really like him to have kept him so long." The implication was interpreted just fine by both men.

"But... but the woman-"

"Sherlock I did not invite you here to have you interrogate me with your silly cases," Magnusson cut in sharply but elegantly. "No, I invited you here because I have a gift for you."

Sherlock slowly shook his head, baffled.

"A... what?" Sherlock asked.

"A gift. You do still like dogs, correct?" Magnusson gesturing once more to the Irish Setter at his side.

Sherlock's eyes went from the dog to Magnusson.

"For what?" Sherlock asked carefully.

"Must there be something in return required?"

"Yes. You would never give anything for free. There's always a price."

Magnusson sighed and nodded.

"Yes. You're right." Magnusson said and he stood and reached for a small remote control and with one clicked Molly's face appeared on half of the television screens behind the Cardinal. Sherlock gasped and stepped closer without realizing it.

John's hand went to cover his mouth without his permission. Both men revealing their sentiment before they could stop themselves.

Molly was sitting in the corner of a dark room, the video feed was green which meant it was set to night vision, which meant Molly was alone in the dark.

Sherlock's heart clenched.

 _She's afraid of the dark,_ Sherlock thought.

With another click of the remote Janine's image illuminated the other half of the screens.

"Jesus." John let out.

"I want to play a game." Magnusson said smirking. "Oh, your faces are delicious."

"What game?" Sherlock demanded, not skipping a beat.

"Shoot the dog or one of them dies-"

"I assume I won't know which one of them you plan to kill first."

"Absolutely not." Magnusson said. "That wouldn't be any fun."

Sherlock took another step towards where the dog sat and took aim at it's head.

 _It's just a dog,_ he told himself. _It's just a damn dog!_

But his hands still shook, his heart still pounded in his chest. He could almost feel Magnusson breathing on him.

"Sherlock do it." John said impatiently.

"You can't do it for him either, John," Magnusson said, saying his name as if he knew him and it made John's skin crawl. "That would be cheating."

Sherlock licked his dry lips, his throat equally dry.

" _It's just a damn dog, boy!"_ Sherlock's father had shouted at him.

Sherlock could still feel Mycroft pulling him away and forcing Sherlock to face him, pulling him closer and kneeling in front of him. Sherlock tried to turn to look as his father raised his gun.

" _Keep your eyes fixed on me."_ Mycroft had said with tears in his eyes and gently, brotherly, kindly, mercifully, Mycroft had covered Sherlock's ears with the palms of his hands.

There had been no time to leave the room, both boys caught up in the moment, too afraid to move. Wanting to run, wanting to hide and yet being unable to do either.

 _It's just a dog..._ Sherlock reminded himself.

But his brain kept telling him it wasn't just a dog. It was Redbeard, he had Redbeard back, his lost childhood incarnate.

 _It's not the_ same _dog,_ he heard Mycroft's voice remind him.

"I do love this," Magnusson said brutally. He placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Sherlock, please," he heard John say.

"Go on Sherlock, or suffer the little women-"

The gun went off and the dog dropped to the floor and soon after so did Sherlock, on his knees, leaving the gun somewhere beside him, cradling the dead dog.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Sherlock muttered into its soft fur.

It smelt like a dog, as all dogs smell the same. It felt like Redbeard... even the collar looked similar.

"Onto the next game." Magnusson said as if Sherlock hadn't just shot a dog in his chamber. The Cardinal walked away, Sherlock did not know where, but he soon felt John beside him.

"Soldiers, Sherlock," John reminded him. Sherlock released the dog, it's eyes still open, still trusting him...

John helped Sherlock to stand, giving him back his gun.

Janine was in a room filled with light and she paced back and forth, occasionally knocking on her cell door but having no answer. She looked scared, like a frightened animal.

"Time to choose, Sherlock," Magnusson said, taking a seat behind his desk and splaying his hands on the wooden davenport.

"Molly or Janine?" John questioned but Magnusson shook his head.

"No. The wife, the lover or..." Magnusson paused for effect but Sherlock had already deduced what he would say next.

"The children."

John wanted to throw up.

"How many?" John asked.

"All of them. There are more where they came from. Each one of their rooms is hooked up with deadly gas. With one press of a button I can kill all of them. Or... spare them." Magnusson explained, evilly.

Sherlock ran a hand over his face.

"Come, come, Sherlock it's a game!" Magnusson joked, smiling in a way no man with a beating heart should when talking about murdering children.

"This isn't a game," Sherlock said dangerously. "This is vivisection."

Magnusson shrugged.

"Call it what you will. I'm having a lovely time. Too bad Molly isn't younger," Magnusson said looking to Molly's little frame in the dark. "But she's just the right age for others I know."

Sherlock's hand itched to shoot Magnusson; he craved the death of this man more than he had ever wanted to end a life before.

"I'll not partake in this filthy web of shit any longer." Sherlock hissed strongly.

"Then they all die." Magnusson said simply.

"Sherlock..." John's voice broke through the madness that was beginning to encompass his companion.

"I... I can't, John." Sherlock said looking into the Captain's eyes.

"Name who you save, Sherlock." Magnusson cut in but Sherlock refused to look away from his... not his partner, his _friend_.

Sherlock felt a tear fall from his eye and he looked to the television screens once more and slowly, on shaking legs and unsteady knees moved forward.

There she was, _his_ girl. His Molly Hooper. His soul-mate, his heart, his darling little paramour. His everything and his nothing.

The beginning and end... the middle. The what could be and what should have been.

Every single moment in time they had spent together and every single moment he had planned for them flashed behind his eyelids in a flurry of overwhelming grief.

Sherlock placed his hand on one of the screens, closing his eyes and yearning that beyond distance, beyond time, beyond measure that she could feel him.

One last touch, one last smile... selfishly he did not think of Janine. This was his moment with Molly. His time to belong to only her. Sherlock never owned Molly... she had stolen him. The little thief in the night, the pickpocket of his heart.

He had taken so much from her; her father, her innocence, her love, her devotion... and what had he given her?

"I think you've made your choice." Magnusson said and Sherlock heard movement.

"No. I haven't." Sherlock said and John snapped his head to him.

Sherlock broke apart inside as he let go of the television screen and walked to the one that contained Janine's image.

The woman who had only wished that he love her and he never could. He hadn't even tried because he hadn't desired to love anyone. He had ruined her life and turned her into a suicidal manic depressive.

Janine deserved to be happy.

At least with Molly they had had their little bit of heaven, their moments of joy and tenderness. What had he given Janine? Sadness, isolation, anxiety, dejection...

Everything she had never deserved.

" _Why don't you ask your wife?"_ Mrs. Harrison's words rushed back to him.

 _What about the children?_ His mind rang to him. He groaned and placed a hand over his stomach, fearing he might lose it at any moment.

"Ooh, I knew this would be good." Magnusson said rubbing his hands together, his cheeks flushing red with excitement.

"Can I speak to them?" Sherlock asked and Magnusson thought on it for a moment or two. "Please, if this might be the last time I speak to them I would like to say goodbye."

"Very well. But not in private. Who would you like first?" Magnusson asked.

Molly would be more painful and he would rather continue to prolong that pain.

"My wife." Sherlock replied weakly.

With the remote Magnusson clicked a button and gave him the go-ahead.

"Janine?" Sherlock said, staring at the television screens.

On the screen Janine jumped at the sound of his voice and seemed to try and find the source.

"Sherlock! Where am I? What's happening?" Janine asked fearfully, her eyes watering.

"It's alright. I can't explain what's happening. But I need to tell you something." Sherlock explained, trying to sound calm.

"Yes?" Janine asked innocently.

"I... I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasted your life." Sherlock said honestly.

Janine visibly stiffened.

"Why are you saying this? You're my husband, I love you and-"

"No! Janine, no, stop! You don't love me. Please, this is the only time we can tell the truth." Sherlock said to her passionately.

For once he had wanted to have an honest conversation with his wife. He heard Janine sigh and she sniffled.

"I don't love you." Janine said to him and released a heavy breath again as if a weight had been lifted.

"I know. I'm sorry I couldn't love you." Sherlock said to her kindly. He thought he saw her smile sadly.

"You're a good man, Sherlock," Janine said kindly. "I wish I could have been what you wanted."

Sherlock inhaled a shaky breath and nodded though she couldn't see him.

"When can I come home?" Janine asked him.

"Soon. I can't explain. I promise you'll be okay." He said, regretting it the moment the words left his lying mouth.

"That's enough." Magnusson said clicking the same button on the remote. Sherlock gritted his teeth so hard he thought he felt them shift.

"Now, for the really interesting one." Magnusson said greedily and eagerly pressed a button and Sherlock approached the screens with Molly, still huddled in a corner with her head bowed on her forearms.

"Molly?" Sherlock whispered, standing so close to the monitors that his eyes began to burn and he could see his breath on the glass. He watched Molly's head slowly lift and she looked all around her but she didn't stand.

"This is a trick." He heard her say and he shook his head wishing she could see him.

"No, no, Molly it's not it's me." He pleaded.

Molly didn't answer, simply lowered her head back into her arms.

"Where are you?" She whispered sadly.

Sherlock wanted to hold her, he wanted to save her.

"Somewhere not with you." He said morosely to her and she lifted her head once more.

"Will you come for me?" She asked.

"Not now."

"Why am I here?"

"Because I'm an idiot."

Molly chuckled surprisingly but it didn't last long.

"Yes, yes you are." She reminded him and he laughed too.

"Molly, I..."

"Yes?"

"I... I want you to know that I-"

"I was untrue!" She blurted out and he closed his mouth, briefly looking back at John who returned the look. His eyes apologizing once more, he looked back to Molly.

"It was Captain Watson. I'm so sorry, Mr. Holmes. It's been killing me. Because I care so much for you and I don't deserve-"

"I forgive you." Sherlock told her, running his index finger over her small frame on the screen.

 _I can smell her even still,_ he thought.

"Can I see you?" Molly asked him hopefully.

"No. I don't know when we can." He told her honestly, wishing he were alone.

"This... is this a goodbye?" She stammered, her throat clogging with tears.

"Molly... I've wanted to say something for a long time. You once asked me if I... if I... _loved_ you," he paused as he saw her standing, as if she were trying to find him in the darkness. "Molly, I have loved you since the moment I saw you."

The words tumbled out of his mouth, pouring over every second of their time together like rain over wet ink, washing it away and blending it with the water.

"I love you. _I love you_." He repeated. He could see her chest rising and falling rapidly and she covered her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking with her sobs.

"Tell her, Sherlock," Magnusson pressed.

"Who's that?" Molly asked, obviously hearing the Cardinal's voice over the speaker.

Sherlock knew what Magnusson was referring to and he begged with his eyes that he not be made to tell her.

"Do it, Sherlock." Magnusson ordered, a look of awful glee in his old pale eyes.

"Molly. There's more. And you'll hate me." Sherlock told her and she shook her head.

"No. No, I love you, I do I love you so much. I could never hate you."

"I wish I could believe that. But I know better than anyone human nature." He said gloomily.

"Please, you can tell me anything." She promised, a look of sweet hope on her face.

"Tell me you love me one more time." He begged.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes." She said, saying his first name for the first time.

"I love you, Molly Hooper. I'm so sorry, Molly, I... I killed your father." He said and he knew the moment he said it he lost her.

Forever, the sweet cottage by the sea, the imaginary garden he had made for her, the sand beneath their feet and the sun above their heads, disappeared.

Sherlock's knees finally gave out on him but even on his knees he could see her in the screens and she too had fallen, gripping her stomach as her body was wracked with uncontrollable sobs.

"No, no, _no, no_..." She whimpered over and over again.

"Molly, I'm sorry."

Magnusson clicked the button again.

"Beautiful, absolutely stunning," Magnusson said clapping his hands.

John wanted to go to his friend, but no matter what he did there was nothing that could ease this pain.

John felt Sherlock dying inside, felt him breaking apart with no way of being put back together again, collapsing like a dying star.

Not even Rayburn Holmes could fix this.

"Alas, it is time to choose. Wife, lover or children, Sherlock?" Magnusson said standing before Sherlock.

John brushed past the Cardinal and helped Sherlock to his feet, pulling him away, creating some distance between them at this monster.

"What if we just shoot you?" John said threateningly.

"Guards will come, the children will be gassed and a man will go to each cell that holds Mrs. Holmes and Molly Hooper and will end their lives." Magnusson said with a sigh, feigning sadness.

John nodded and looked to Sherlock, looking him in the eyes again. Sherlock was utterly defeated. A man broken beyond repair. He looked like a little boy.

But there was something in those eyes, a knowing look, a look he had seen before.

A look that said, "trust me".

It was now or never, run and hide or stand and fight.

 _Soldiers,_ John thought.

John chuckled for a moment and looked at Magnusson.

"What?" The Cardinal questioned.

"Your face." John said continuing to laugh.

"What about it?" Magnusson demanded.

"That must have hurt like a bitch." John said in gesturing to the burn.

"Yes, yes it did."

"Yeah, well, too bad you won't feel this." John said raising his gun and pulling the trigger.

Magnusson dropped dead to the ground, his brain painting the monitors behind him.

"Took you long enough to catch on." Sherlock said and he took in another shaking breath.

It hadn't all been a performance after all.

Sherlock had really hurt Molly but it all needed to be said. And after all she needed to be far away from him. What better way than confessing the greatest evil he had inflicted upon her?

"When did you disable them?" John asked.

Magnusson should never have let Sherlock so close to his desk while John distracted him with his questioning.

It gave Sherlock time to find the security switch on the Cardinal's desk that controlled the cameras. Sherlock deduced Magnusson turned off the cameras when he had children in his office so he could never be blackmailed.

It was smart, but Sherlock Holmes was smarter.

"How long before his guards check on him?" John asked his friend.

"Who knows, depends on how long he's usually with one of them." He said disgustedly.

"One less monster in the world." John commented.

Sherlock removed a small radio and sent a coded message to Mycroft, who was already on his way, under the guise of a social call to the Cardinal, as a rescue.

And Sherlock and John posed the Cardinal's suicide.

When Mycroft arrived he carried with him a search warrant; he found the children, Sherlock and John had already left. Mycroft sent his own coded message that Molly and Janine were put on his ship and would be returned home safely.

"Have you been in contact with Mycroft this whole time?" John asked on their way back.

Sherlock nodded.

"Of course. He's the only one I could trust. I contacted him after I woke. We had an... interesting conversation." Sherlock told him.

John gaped at him.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" John asked him.

"I guess I forgot." Sherlock said simply.

"You forgot?"

"Yu- _p_."

John sighed and leaned back against the wall of the ship taking them home.

"You're an asshole." John said.

"I know."

John eventually fell asleep. However Sherlock remained awake. He couldn't stop thinking about Molly. Now that everything had been laid between himself and Janine he felt they could remain married but at least be honest with each other. An honest marriage would be better than a silent one.

But Molly... he had destroyed her. She would never love him again. He would find her a new position, better pay, maybe she could retire early.

 _No, she should never work again... Astrid 1 maybe, she could still have a garden._

He would not return to his old life as a Watcher.

With the death of the Cardinal and the rise of his brother into power things were going to change. Sherlock and Mycroft shared that view at least, that the world needed changing.

However that didn't mean there wouldn't be people standing in their way and his elder brother would need someone to help him.

But until then... he needed to deal with the Molly Hooper situation. He couldn't leave things how they were. He needed to apologize until she forced him to stop, until she slapped him and called him a bastard.

It didn't matter. He couldn't leave it, he needed to finish it in a better way.

They deserved their moment of being alone together, of him begging her on his hands and knees like a coward that he couldn't live without her. That moment needed to happen.

But was he brave enough to allow it?

Mycroft sent him a message telling him the children were being looked after by doctors and many of Magnusson's advisors who lived on the _Aquitaine_ had been arrested.

At least there were some victories. A little justice in the world.

X

"He thought it was Magnusson?" Anton Hooper said taking a drink of water.

Mycroft nodded and sat down at his desk.

It had been weeks since Magnusson's "suicide" and it was the first moment the elder Holmes was able to speak with his partner in crime.

"Yes," Mycroft said with an exasperated sigh. "So much paper work."

The older man chuckled a little and took another sip, crossing a leg over the other.

"Don't pretend you're not enjoying your new position, old friend." Anton said smiling and raising his glass to Mycroft who shrugged humbly.

"Oh, it's nothing," Mycroft said, feigning humbleness. "How is Astrid 1?"

"Beautiful and uneventful." The man said with a shrug.

"Yes, but you've come back. Not that I'm complaining. Your message to Sherlock was delivered quite well.

Anton Hooper leaned forward, placing his glass of water on the mahogany desk.

"Delivered but not yet received." Anton said seriously.

"You grew tired of waiting, I presume?"

"You gave me little choice." Anton countered.

Mycroft sighed and nodded in defeat.

It was true; for years Anton had been pressuring Mycroft into telling Sherlock the truth but the elder Holmes had refused to budge.

And so Anton had taken matters into his own hands especially when his spies informed him that his own daughter was on Sherlock's radar. It didn't help that Sherlock had been turned into the perfect spy himself without even knowing it.

Rayburn had supplied much of the video footage taken from Sherlock's memory banks; however the younger, half-blooded Holmes had been kind enough to omit the "intimate moments" between Sherlock and the former Watcher's daughter.

Despite Rayburn's voyeurism, he was loyal and even he did have his limits.

As long as his mother was safe nothing else mattered to Rayburn.

"It all worked out in the end." Mycroft said, sounding relieved and tired.

New positions of power were rarely easy to acclimate to and even for someone as brilliant as Mycroft Holmes he too was only human after all.

Anthea continued to try and make him jealous and he never showed that it worked quite efficiently. She never tired of dangling her latest conquest under his nose hoping that it would get his attention. But Mycroft had no time for his personal life. He had bigger fish to fry and sadly his frying pan was getting quite crowded.

Making peace with the rebels had been in the making for years, hence the cease fire. Their representative was a simple man who chose neutrality above all other things.

Even Anton had been intelligent enough to make sure he was in the right place at the right time when a Watcher was murdered in front of him.

"Have you spoken to her?" Mycroft dared ask.

The subject of his daughter was a precarious one.

The elder Holmes had always intended to keep the girl safe and for a while he had hoped that with his bionic brother that was the most secure place for her... until Sherlock couldn't keep his greedy hands to himself.

Anton grimaced but a little, a look of shame, not towards her, but of himself changed his features ever so slightly, his guard down from living a civilian life too long.

Mycroft nearly grinned, finding the older man as noble as ever.

"Too much time has passed," Anton said sadly. "She is safe."

"You'll be living on the same planet, Anton, you might want to make your presents known. I suppose congratulations are in order." Mycroft said, almost dismally.

Anton clenched his jaw and let the Watcher facade fall away. With Mycroft he could always be honest.

"I am disappointed to say the least. But I love her, she is my blood." Anton said in a subdued passion.

"Perhaps you should rethink your choice to let her continue to think you're dead. She needs you now, more than ever."

X

Molly Hooper had been given a residence on Astrid 1 and she didn't know why.

A man called Mycroft Holmes, who informed her that he was quite powerful and important, arranged everything. But Molly was alone save for a few individuals that worked for Mr. Holmes.

The shared family name made her queasy every time she heard it. And knowing this man was a relation to her former employer made her feel like she was a stone's throw away from Sherlock Holmes himself.

"Mr. Holmes said that" or "Mr. Holmes says this" haunted her daily. She had to keep to herself that every time the name "Holmes" was spoken it killed her, she had to muffle her sobs when she excused herself for a blessed moment alone.

Molly was getting used to the dome on Astrid 1. The sickness was overwhelming at times and the ground didn't feel the same as on earth no matter how hard the engineers had attempted to create the illusion of home.

How long ago it seemed now that she had daydreamed of living on a place like this with the man she had loved... still loved.

But now he was so far down there, on that little blue marble, and she was so high above him.

 _Who's haunting who?_ She thought staring up at the purple and blue sky.

The accommodations were beyond what Molly Hooper had ever had in her entire life. She did not think she was worthy of such luxury.

Two bedrooms, one for herself and another for visitors... but who would be visiting her when she had no family and no lover?

A bathroom smaller but just as grand as Mrs. Holmes' had been, the bed so big she thought she might get lost. Molly didn't think she deserved any of it and yet here it was, at her feet, for her to do with as she wished.

The thing that ate away at Molly slowly and surely over time was the fact she had servants. _She!_

A nobody with no prestigious family name or high status, had others caring for her every need; not that she had many to begin with.

A maid, as she herself had once been, and a cook.

It wasn't an enormous household like the one she had come from and yet it was too much. Everything, all of it, every last fiber was too much.

 _I don't belong here,_ she kept thinking to herself but not voicing it to anyone. _Why should I live in affluence when I did nothing to deserve it? When others more pitiful than I should live in deplorable conditions as I float high above it all..._

Molly would wake in the middle of the night reaching for a lover that wasn't there. She would wake panting from nightmares of being trapped in that terrible dungeon, abyss, vault... hell. When rescue had come it was not her father or Mr. Holmes.

It had been a man in armor and a face mask. She didn't know who he had been. He had reached down with arms like wings and carried her to safety.

Molly both daydreamed for Mr. Holmes to appear like a phantom outside her door and cringed at the idea of him coming to her.

The man had taken everything from her. Father, home, love, virtue... what else? What was left of her that he would want from her now?

 _Nothing, you're used up. There's nothing he could possibly desire from you..._ her mind told her.

Molly distracted herself with books and the Network. The whole world was going through a reformation. She figured out for herself why she would be spirited away to a safe haven during such a time. Astrid 1 was neutral ground, a collective of intellectuals and freethinkers.

There was no war or bloodshed. There was no only peace and quiet for those who wanted it. That didn't mean it was easy to get in. A heavy screening and vetting process awaited anyone wanting to find a haven on Astrid 1.

But there had been no screening or vetting of Molly Hooper. Papers were drawn up and signed and two days later she was in her new home.

There were community gardens and lectures and Molly attended them, however they did make her anxious. And yet she was persistent not to let her fear take over. She would be free of it one day but as of today she would have to fight through it.

One did not simply "get over" everything that had happened.

Like losing a limb, she equated it to. Like fighting a prize fighter with both arms tied behind her back.

From her new home she watched on the Network as the world evolved. The rebels and the government made peace. But there were internal battles to win. Some members of the old government fought back and once more a rebellion rose up.

Molly saw it only as an endless cycle, no one would win. This government and that would fall to be replaced by something exactly the same but with a new name and a new leader.

One leader would promise freedom and another tyranny.

Molly Hooper was tired of both sides. Slowly and over a short period of time she grew used to Astrid 1. She made a couple friends but never dared tell them much about herself.

 _What would they say if they knew I had been a maid?_ She thought frantically to herself. There was even a young man about her age that seemed to enjoy spending time with her, his name was Tom. He taught her many things and opened her mind to new ideas and thoughts that had never occurred to her.

And yet she felt like she didn't belong. The ground was a good illusion but the planet didn't spin the same way, the air tasted like a crude recreation of the air she had known her whole life.

The rain wasn't even real rain. It was water, purified by filters, but scheduled. There were no surprises on Astrid 1 and yet Molly grew accustomed to that too.

Drinking her morning tea she thanked her maid as the girl departed. Memories of standing in that girl's same shoes flooded her mind which inevitably lead to Mrs. Holmes and more grievously, Mr. Holmes.

To distract herself she wondered what Mrs. Holmes was doing, if she was well, if she ever ended her life, if she ever got her baby...

 _Mr. Holmes... Sir._

"Damn it." Molly bit back a sob.

 _How can one be so relieved and unhappy all at once?_

Worst of all Molly felt abandoned. Taken away from everything she had ever known, spat into space like a dirty little secret.

There was a knock and she pushed herself to her feet, waddling a little to the door, her belly only slightly swollen. She sighed deeply. The pregnancy was unexpected to say the least, another good reason Mycroft Holmes had whisked her away after the doctors examined her after she was rescued from her prison.

Now she stood at three and a half months pregnant.

Molly wondered who could be at the door but reminded herself she had so few visitors, it was most likely Tom with a new tablet. She yawned a little, wiped back her routine morning tears and opened the door.

"Hello, Smiling Star."

 **AN: So sorry there hasn't been an update in awhile! Moving, working full time and feeling like crap does that to you lol Check out Timecop1983 on YouTube, that's the playlist that's been getting me through this! Thank you for the reviews and sticking with me, you're all wonderful!**


	18. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Wild Love

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Wild Love

Political fervor had never been Sherlock's up of tea. In fact he quite detested personal and public politics. But being part of the dismantling of the old world order meant being a part of the new one no matter how much he loathed it. He saw himself only as a consultant of sorts to his brother. He and Rayburn had made up, apologies were made and a contract drawn up that Rayburn would never spy on Sherlock, John or Molly Hooper ever again.

Sherlock retreated to his home on Baker Street most days, staying far away from any public attention. There was still a war going on even under the thin blanket of peace. Many of his own kind had resisted and been thrown in jail and so it was that a new rebellion began. It was all very tiring and quite annoying.

Every day Sherlock vowed to travel to Astrid 1 to speak to Molly Hooper and every day something new held him back. As if fate were intervening. And Sherlock rarely gave pause to such a childish and ludicrous idea. He deduced, ultimately, that Mycroft had something to do with it.

Keeping him on earth, distracting him with pointless drivel to the point of madness.

Janine also kept to herself, however it was not a personal isolation as it had been before, or even the type of isolation and voluntary confinement Sherlock thrust upon himself like a sword.

No, hers was a liberating one. She remodeled and he didn't care what she did. He told her she could throw away all of the Holmes heirlooms if she wanted for the name meant little to him. Of course Janine, in her sweet tempered sort of way, gave them over to Mycroft or Rayburn as a way to keep the brothers together.

Sherlock had no cares for any of it. The house could burn down with him inside and he wouldn't bat an eye.

John had been around but he too was being kept busy by Mycroft. The Captain had seemed to forget all about his hope and plans for retirement, seemingly finding new purpose. The elder Holmes offered him a position as Chief of Security and Intelligence, only after Sherlock told Mycroft to "fuck off" at the offer.

Essentially though John had moved into Baker Street and Sherlock was at least pleased with his presence. The Captain however often reminded Sherlock that Molly should be told the truth about what had happened.

The truth was, and John knew this without Sherlock saying it, was that Sherlock was afraid of her. He was afraid of those broken, glassy eyes and her sweet forgiving face.

But there was only so far one could push a loyal person until they finally refused to forgive and forget.

Sherlock knew where Molly was, it wasn't hard to figure out and with a little prodding and pressure and deducing, Mycroft folded like a brittle house of cards.

Astrid 1 was neutral territory and she would be safest there.

Many of the upper class had tried to flee in hopes that their sins would be washed away.

Citizens Sherlock had once called "friend" and "enemy", sometimes in the same sentence.

And while some did get to the planet's heavenly gates, there were others had to face the unforgiving hands of justice.

Sherlock couldn't help but feel he should face some sort of judgement for the atrocities he had inflicted upon Molly. But perhaps removing himself entirely from her life was punishment enough for him.

X

When Molly Hooper saw the face of a father she thought long dead she did not faint. She trembled with a rage she had never felt before. She felt like a joke, like a little fool for being played so easily. There had been no body to identify. A quick cremation had followed with a traditional and spartan ceremony of burying his ashes.

Another lie told to her, fed to her greedily and she had lapped it up, by Sherlock Holmes.

 _Then why had he confessed it?_ She wondered.

All of this happened in thirty seconds as she stood there, almost in a daze, gazing at the very alive face of her father.

Anton Hooper looked as he did the last time she saw him. Gray and black hair, the stoic face painted with a an eternally loving grin saved only for her.

"Hello, Smiling-Star."

Molly felt her eyes close as she felt every letter of every word from his mouth wash over her; paint her in their colors.

A hand went over her belly out of instinct, but not gently rubbing only guarding it.

 _He looks like my father but how can I trust him now?_ She thought bitterly.

Molly opened her eyes, allowing herself a moment of calm before returning to the rage.

"You... you have some explaining to do." Molly told him firmly.

Anton had been hoping for more tears but realistically knew that she was more likely to feel angry and abandoned than anything else. He sighed.

It was only fair. He would have to harden himself against her anger, give excuses and reasons. His little girl was not a child anymore. He could no longer avoid and distract her with petty, trivial things. She was a grown woman now, no matter how hard he had tried to keep her childlike.

He had been a fool and in the end a bad father.

"Allow me to enter and I will tell you everything." He promised truthfully.

A moment or two of thought and Molly stepped aside letting him into her new domain. He was sure he would hear the door slam shut behind him but it did not. A simple, small woosh of the air being pushed around by the door and it gently closed.

Molly offered him a seat at her small kitchen table.

In her anger she neglected to sit herself, standing on the other side of the table with her arms crossed and looking so much like her mother when she was angry with him.

"Well? Explain."

X

Four months since he had seen Molly Hooper and Sherlock was going mad. His life seemed even more dull than it had been before the New Order took over.

Mycroft's name, not his. Sherlock couldn't give a damn what his elder brother called the new government.

Mycroft could have called it _Mycroft Holmes on Parade_ and he wouldn't have cared.

All Sherlock wanted- no, all he _needed_ \- was to see Molly Hooper and enough was finally enough.

Sherlock booked passage through his brother on a transport to Astrid 1, telling John he would go alone.

John really couldn't get away what with his new position and Sherlock wanted him to look after Janine.

Sherlock also didn't want to have to deal with the three of them alone in a room together.

 _So... you've slept with both us?_

No, best not to open that unpleasant can of worms. She had already admitted to him that she had been false to him with John.

There was no need to split open old wounds, no reason to let them fester any longer. It was time for both of them to forgive themselves, Sherlock certainly had.

 _But can I forgive myself?_

The flight to Astrid was the same as it always; uncomfortable, cramped and teeming with anxiety and tension.

Sherlock couldn't help but fidget and feel slightly vain; was he wearing something appropriate? Did he smell nice? Was his hair still in place? Should he have brought a gift?

 _Can she see through me even now?_

Their time together played like a film reel over and over again in his mind's eye. But how untrustworthy the mind was. Creating moments that had not happened in the real memory, making Molly glow a little brighter and seem a little less sad.

In Sherlock's mind the memories were perfectly preserved and he held them close to his heart; like an invisible blanket of comfort.

 _May she be merciful to me,_ he thought as he felt the transport make its descent to the planet of neutrality.

Sherlock allowed himself to daydream lest he slip too far into the realm of pessimism.

He imagined her garden again and the ocean.

There were man made beaches on Astrid 1 that could serve in place of the real thing, like on earth.

Warm, blue water with earth life inhabiting them.

They could make a life here. He could divorce Janine, she would give no complaint.

They could be happy on Astrid. Live a life he had always hoped they could but never were able to in the old days.

 _Maybe I could... make her happy,_ he lied to himself.

Sherlock found a Cab-Bot, Molly's home was an hour away from the transport depot.

More time to think on what he had done, more time to sulk and feel sorry for himself. And more time to decide what he wanted to do.

Would he confess his sins and turn and cower like a dog or be a man and fight for her?

And yet the question remained, if he fought for her would she allow him a victory?

Too many questions with too much time that had gone by. Perhaps she thought him dead now. Perhaps she had moved on... the hound of jealousy bit into him with the jaws of a shark, tearing, thrashing it's mighty head back and forth until all the life would be shaken out of it's prey.

 _Would she even accept a man who was barely human?_ He thought.

Sherlock would never admit out loud the insecurity he now felt at not feeling like a whole man. He was scrap metal, a patchwork of human pieces sewn together like some fabled monster of a story from long ago.

The people screamed at the monster then... they would scream ever still.

Molly Hooper's new home had a garden but it was not tended to, overgrown with wild flowers and weeds. And yet it smelled rich and full of life. The scent of a new life.

Bittersweet and all encompassing.

With a trembling hand he knocked on the door and waited. She might faint, she might slam the door in his face. What was he planning on saying again?

All thought began to leave him. He felt nothing except his palms beginning to sweat. He was too paranoid to wipe them, what if she opened the door at the exact moment he removed his perspiration.

And yet he had always been on the brink of being vulnerable to Molly. Perhaps she would appreciate it.

The door clicked and the knob began to turn and Sherlock took deep breaths.

And... there she was.

Pale as ivory with a rosy color to her cheeks, eyes clear, lips parted.

Only one thing came to his mind, one thing to say, one thing to exclaim and vow. One thing to sign his life and heart away and whatever kind of a soul he had to. It came so clearly to his mind, it silenced all other anxiety or fear. It muffled the insecurity and quited his loud and overworked and tired genius.

It was simple, he had said it before. He had meant it more than any other words he had said. And now was the moment to speak them again.

"I love you."

Molly flung the door open and grasped him to her small body. How strong she had always been.

"You daft prick." She whispered into his ear and he could hear the sob bobbing in her throat, like a sickness she was trying to keep down.

His arms fused themselves to her, a hand burying itself in her hair, which had grown longer since he had last seen her.

 _If I should die now, I would be able to say I was happy,_ he thought to himself.

Sherlock felt something protruding, something poking him. He pulled away for a moment and glanced downward. Her belly was swollen and still tiny, a small part of her waist peeking out from her shirt.

"I wanted to tell you-" she began, her voice wavering a little, but he shook his head slowly, silencing her.

"I love you." He repeated and he gripped the sides of her head and kissed her forehead sweetly. "It doesn't matter. It could never matter." He said breathlessly.

Instinctively his hand pressed to her stomach and her own covered his.

"Does he know?" Sherlock asked her, he needed to know. Molly shook her head.

"No. I didn't understand at first. Come inside. We need to talk." She said and she took him by the hand and lead him inside.

The house was like Molly; warm and kind, bright and beautiful. And yet he missed her bedroom at Baker Street. So small and like their own little world.

"We'll tell him together. I'm sure he can..." Sherlock's voice trailed away when he noticed the man's coat hanging on a coat rack.

And then the two glasses on the table, the dishes in the sink. She had company. And they hadn't left yet.

"Molly?" Sherlock said quietly and Molly licked her lips nervously and wrung her hands awkwardly.

"There's... something you should know. I only just found out this morning." Molly said cryptically. Sherlock felt his guard go up and he wished he had his gun with him but he couldn't bring it to Astrid 1.

Good thing he hid his knife. But he also had to remind himself that he had the strength of ten men, maybe more.

"What's going on?" He asked her calmly.

"There's someone who can explain everything much better than I can." Molly said, the words left her mouth as a door opened and familiar footsteps followed.

Sherlock felt his body go cold, he ached for a dose of Felicity as an escape, he longed for Molly to hold his hand, he wanted to kill and beg. He had thought he would have only been at the mercy of Molly Hooper.

But those footfalls... they were the thing that haunted his dreams and created nightmares to beckon his reckoning.

The revenant showing it's face.

Anton Hooper appeared in the kitchen, very much alive and his head intact, and Sherlock believed he had gone crazy.

Perhaps something inside his half mechanical brain was malfunctioning. This was a projection. None of this was real. He was on a slab somewhere, this was a induced dream, an hallucination.

Anton Hooper was not standing in front of him. He was not, he simply could not, be here.

"I... I killed you." Sherlock said quietly, disbelievingly. "This is a trick."

Anton shook his head.

"No, Sherlock, this is very real. And we have much to discuss."

 **AN: sorry for the lack of updates. I hit a wall with this chapter, along with moving and not having access to internet recently. I'm uploading this from my mom's house lol I hope you're still enjoying and thank you so much for all the lovely reviews! 3**


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